The reverse was the opinion of Philip Aultman. Life seemed a failure, every venture foredoomed; and this sunny June morning, when all nature seemed to give the lie to evil prognostications, he sat in his room with the curtains of his soul pulled down, brooding over his misfortunes, not once considering that he was in fault. A maple3 grew just outside the window, and a little branch tapped on the uplifted sash coaxingly4; the soft wind whispered through its branches, and entering lifted his curly brown locks shyly; a bluebird tilted5 its bright head, and swelled6 its throat in song of enticement7; he lifted his face from the melancholy8 arch of his arms, and said as if in answer to the appeal: “I will go out, this is of no use! Anything is better than staying within brooding over my trouble!”
As he wandered about the sweet wind seemed to blow away much of his despondency, although he still smarted with indignation against fate. Yet—what is fate? The evil we bring upon ourselves. We clasp our hands above our heads, 120prostrate ourselves with our foreheads in the dust, and say with the devout11 Oriental: “Kismet!” Thus we are absolved12 from all blame.
Philip had been poor all his life; not miserably13 indigent14, though many things which go to make life comfortable were lacking. He had inherited a taste for art from his father; hard work had been the rule of his life, and as a result he was a very creditable artist, though not by any means entering into the soul of the work. It is one thing to paint a fair picture, to write an acceptable story; it is quite another thing to put your very self into your work, and endow it with a subtle life which is past all explaining.
When he was twenty-five he inherited money—worse for him; he thought that henceforward life held no need for exertion15; as though food and raiment constitute all for which we should exert ourselves. He fancied that happiness lay in two things; going to sleep, and letting the enervating16 wind of pleasure drift him whithersoever it would; or getting astride of the billow of self-will, to ride over everything. He did not find his mistake until slice by slice his inheritance had been cut away from him, and he looked with astonished gaze upon those who, under the guise17 of friendship, had fastened themselves upon him in his prosperity, and now stared at him with unseeing eyes. He looked upon it as the worst misfortune which could have befallen him. He was no more shortsighted than the majority of persons; because a certain condition brings present discomfort18, we rebel against it as being to our great detriment19; most frequently 121we rebel without reason. The loss was a blessing to him, against which he railed, beat, and bruised20 himself.
Just at this point I take up his history.
He wandered about the woods all day, sometimes throwing himself on the grass to look up into the immeasurable depths of the ether; again, idly throwing pebbles21 into the flashing water; but during all that sweet, restful afternoon his soul was awakening22 from its lethargy; thoughts which seemed to him a glimpse of the divine, surprised his hitherto dormant23 intellectuality; he began to realize that life held possibilities of which he had never caught a glimpse.
Evil is but good gone astray; it is the oscillation of the pendulum24; Philip had reached the adverse25 limit, and the pendulum of its own momentum26 was returning to the center of gravity. As deadly nausea27 is the precursor28 of a cleansed29 stomach, so he felt a thorough disgust with all the world, which meant to him—as it does to every one of us—the people with whom he was in daily association; he indignantly compared them to a flock of geese—all gabble and greed. It is a hard truth, that if we will submit to be plucked we can soon find all the worst characteristics of the worst people. He thought savagely30 that he desired never to see one of them again.
He took a small memorandum31 book from his pocket, and setting down a few figures ran them over rapidly; he laughed harshly, a sound that held the threat of a sob32: “Six hundred dollars! Well, that is a great showing from fifty thousand! No wonder the elegant Mabel DeVere 122gave me the cold shoulder; she and her kind have no use for a man without money; then there was that little dancer—she had no further use for the goose after it was thoroughly33 plucked, as she took pains to tell me; she was at least honest. They are all alike, a treacherous34, tricky35 lot!” he muttered to himself, with moody36 brow; but he remembered with a pang37 of shame that his loving, patient, helpful mother had been like none of those with whom he had associated, and his shame was that he had sought such company; it had been of his own choosing; what better was he, that he should fling at them? He was looking at himself in a new light.
He tried not to think about it, it made him restless and ashamed; but such thoughts once aroused will not be quieted; when the light is once admitted the germ of higher growth will strengthen rapidly.
“How sweet it would be to live like this,” he said thoughtfully. A sudden smile lighted the gloom of his face; “Why not? I have my outfit39, and money enough to procure40 food and shelter whenever I desire it. It is not so very much that a person needs after all; it is what he fancies that he needs, and is much better without, that takes the money—and what his friends require,” he added with a rueful grimace41.
In consequence of this determination, he took a small gripsack, together with his artist’s materials, and tossed the key of his room to his landlady42, saying nonchalantly, “Take care of my things; I’ll be back sometime!”
No person can live near to nature’s heart, can 123share in her moods, and drink of her healing waters, and not grow purer in heart, and stronger spiritually. Philip began to lose the sense of discord43, and to understand, with a feeling of humility44, that he had been in fault; it was well for him to live with himself for awhile, that he might learn what kind of a man he had really been.
Toward the close of a cloudless July day he came up a long, grassy45, country lane, to a squat46 looking farmhouse47; he had come across country many miles, and had found a strange charm in the solitude48. He was tired and hungry, and hailed a sight of the house with pleasure. The whole place had a wild and deserted49 look; a few late roses hung their heavy heads from the unpruned bushes; creepers ran riot over a long, low porch extending around three sides of the house giving it the appearance of a mother hen protecting her brood.
As he assayed to open the rickety gate the tangled50 morning-glorys seemed to hold it closed against him as though in warning. A vision of supper and a bed with cool, sweet-scented sheets had possessed51 his mind; but as the gate creaked on its one rusty52 hinge and he felt the desolation of the place, a chill went over him and the comforting vision disappeared.
A hollow, uncanny reverberation53 was the only answer to his rapping. He turned the knob, which yielded readily to his touch, but the door swung slowly on its rusty hinges; stiffly like a person old and tortured with the rheumatism54. He stood undecided, peering in among the 124shadows of a long, dimly lighted hall, which extended the whole length of the house, the doors opening primly56 on either side along its entire length; plainly no foot had disturbed the dust on this floor for many a day. As he stepped within a cloud arose as though in protest; he opened the first door on the right, and was surprised to find the room furnished; the low-browed ceiling seemed to frown ominously57; the sides were paneled in dark wood, being alternately the head of an animal and a flower, exquisite58 in design and workmanship; but the dark mahogany color added to the somber59 effect. A square old-fashioned bedstead stood at the far corner of the room, its tall spindling posts rising high toward the ceiling like uplifted hands; on one of these hung a man’s hat. Phil fancied that he could see the kind of a man who had worn it; an athletic60 fellow, not over nice in his dress, judging by its battered61 look. The clothing on the bed was pulled awry62, as though the occupants had hurriedly stepped out, without time to arrange the room; an easy-chair was drawn63 up before the great, yawning fireplace, in which a few charred64 sticks lay across the old-fashioned, brass65 andirons. On the mantle66 stood a brass candlestick, with a half-burned candle in the socket67; a pair of snuffers on a tray at its side; a turkey wing, bound with velvet68, lay on another tray in the corner of the fireplace; just above it hung a pair of old-fashioned bellows69; a short, squat shovel70, and a pair of grotesquely71, long legged tongs72 stood near; the two looking like a lank73 old man, and his fat, little wife. 125Taken altogether, it had a quaint74, old-fashioned look, which told pathetically of mouldering75 forms, and days long since dead.
All other rooms in the house were entirely76 destitute77 of furniture. He soon kindled78 a fire, and from a little stream which purled through the garden he filled his tin pot and presently it was singing drowsily79. Hunger made a sauce piquant80 to his crackers81 cheese, and fragrant82 tea; better relished83 than all the costly84 dinners eaten when stomach and morals both were overburdened.
The sun was setting in the west amid a glory of gilded85 clouds; the wind blew faintly across the level meadow and pasture land; no sound disturbed the silence; the tinkle86 of a cowbell, the crowing of a cock, seemed but to accentuate87 the peace.
Phil brought the chair out upon the porch, and sat leaning lazily back, dreamily regarding his surroundings. How much sweeter this than the restless, unsatisfying life which he had led! In some occult manner the quaint old-fashioned house and the peaceful scene brought his mother before his mind; the saddened quiet, the tinge88 of sweet loneliness, seemed like a reflection of her life. A wave of regret swept over him that he had not been a better son. He remembered that she had saved and denied herself many comforts that he might receive a fine education, and study art under the most favorable circumstances. He blushed with shame to think how ungrateful he had been, and felt glad that the money had not fallen to him while she yet lived, for he knew 126that his reckless course would have grieved her sorely. Heretofore he had consoled himself with the thought that there were others much worse than he; he began to understand that comparison did not in the least palliate the offense90; he felt a greater twinge of shame as he thought of some of his past actions, that thus he had wronged her memory, her teachings, and his higher self.
It had grown dark; the wind had arisen with the going down of the sun, and the loose boards were rattling92 noisily; the vines were swaying to and fro, but the stars blinked in the darkened vault93 in a quizzical manner as he started up in affright. He thought that he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and that he beheld94 the shadowy outline of a form within the room.
He stood up and shook himself vigorously: “I must have been dreaming; this wind is uncomfortably cold,” he said, with a shiver.
He went in, and lighted the candle; he built a fire which leaped and flared95 up the broad-mouthed fireplace, throwing jolly, fantastic shadows over the great room, much more suggestive of the play of elfins than the gloomy walking of ghosts. He sat drowsily looking into the coals; the fire had burned low, and the room was in half shadow, with a fitful lighting96 up now and then; a cold wind struck him, and he seemed impelled97 by some unseen force to look toward the bed; the battered hat appeared to be rising of its own volition98 above the tall post, and 127the face of a man fitted itself beneath it; a cruel face; the white brow beetling99 over deep set, piercing eyes; the jaw100 massive and square; the lips thin, a mere101 line across the resolute102 face; the whole countenance103 imbued104 with a strange fierce beauty; a man who would allow nothing to stand in the way of his will. Phil started up with a gasp105 of terror; he felt suffocated106.
“Great God! Is this place haunted, or have I a bad case of nightmare?” he exclaimed aloud.
He could have sworn that he heard a laugh, shrill107 and blood curdling108; but perhaps it was but the wind among the gnarled apple trees—our imagination plays us strange tricks, and the furnishings and appearance of a room have disastrous109 effect upon our nerves at times.
He slept but fitfully the whole night, although nothing more occurred to alarm him, and with the coming of the morning sun he thought it all a dream.
After he had his breakfast he took his easel out upon the porch; he felt ashamed of the wasted hours which lay behind him, and determined110 to be more diligent111; he placed his board, took his pencil in his hand—and sat staring straight before him. He sought vainly for an inspiration; his brain seemed empty, imagination dead. But one object rose before his mental vision—the face he had seen under the old hat!
He felt tempted112 to throw pencils and board in among the weeds. He left the easel standing113, and went for a long walk; while walking his imagination leaped responsive to his desire; he 128outlined his work, and hastened back eager to commence; but as he once more seated himself, the same tormenting114 sense of inability assailed115 him; the same terrifying face came ever between him and the board.
With an angry exclamation117 he commenced sketching119; at once he lost all feeling of uncertainty120; he worked feverishly121, and line by line the face grew before him; he seemed inspired by some power other than his own; a mole122 in front of the ear, a dimple in the chin, which he did not remember having seen, grew under his hand. A face of strange beauty, but from every lineament shone forth123 a fierce unconquerable nature, and at last, as the light was fading, he threw down his pencil and stepped back to look at it; he saw the ghostly counterpart hovering124 just above it; he gave utterance125 to a frightened exclamation; then said angrily: “I’ve looked so steadily126 at that thing, that I see double; I’ll take a run and rest myself.”
So he carried everything within, and took his way to the lone89 farmhouse visible in the distance; he found the place occupied by an elderly couple. After some desultory127 talk, he questioned the woman about the old house and its former occupants; she, nothing averse128, told him the following story:
The house was built long before her birth, by a strange, foreign looking man, who, although he appeared to be wealthy, lived the life of a recluse129. He suddenly disappeared, and what became of him no one ever knew; the estate was finally sold by the courts, and John Hilyer, then 129a young man, and just married to pretty, winsome130 Rachel Drew, bought the place, and came there to live.
A year or so later a son was born to them; John Hilyer, Jr. As young John grew to manhood, he resembled his father in feature and physique; but had a beauty inherited from his mother. No one ever knew the elder Hilyer to transgress131 a law, human or divine—according to his own estimation of himself. But he ruled his gentle wife as though she were a child; and he required of John unquestioning obedience—a complete subjugation132 of will, not considering that so sturdy a sapling must possess a growth of its own. He was a hard, selfish man; without sympathy or understanding for desires, and feelings not possessed by himself; he was, to himself, the criterion by which to judge all things. Added to this, he had a mean, miserly way of using religion as a specious133 plea for denying others the things conducive134 to comfort or pleasure; he stigmatized135 all such as sinful.
Young John was of a fiery136, almost cruelly persistent137 turn; where he loved, he loved fiercely, jealously; where he hated it was with a violence of passion frightful138 to contemplate139. His father allowed him no money to spend, and no time for pleasure, or even for recreation, saying that it was a sinful waste of time. All the love of John’s fierce heart was poured out upon his mother, and when she laid down her hard burden, his grief and anger were beyond words, though he cried out to his father: “You starved her to death! You starved her body of the things that might 130have prolonged her life, and her very soul of all intellectual and spiritual food!” Some little of the truth must have penetrated140 the old man’s armor of selfishness, as he turned away without reply.
A year later his father died, and so bitter was his feeling against him that he saw him lowered into his grave without a regret. He was like a child let loose from restraint; he plunged141 into all kinds of excess. He gathered around him a horde142 of evil companions, who for months made the old place a pandemonium143. John was no fool, and he soon sickened of this life; and when one of them thought to be witty145 at the expense of his mother, and her poor way of living, he grew livid with wrath146, and turned them all out, saying as he closed the door upon them, “Neither you, nor I, are fit to mention my mother; but you shall not disgrace her room again!”
He shut himself up in almost total solitude, with a wild idea of doing penance147 for having outraged148 his mother’s memory. Several months later one or two of his profligate149 associates sought him, he promptly150 shut the door in their faces, and what he said to them he said in such a manner that they left him undisturbed in his solitude. Then he disappeared, and no one knew of his whereabouts for fully38 a year; even at this time the house had come to have an evil reputation; people said of it that it was an unlucky place, but they passed it with a shudder151 which meant much more.
One night in early springtime, a passer-by 131saw a dim light in the front room—the others had long since been stripped of the old-fashioned furniture; the uncanny reputation of the house made him hasten by without a glance more than he could help.
The next day the whole country was in commotion152. Early in the forenoon three large vans, loaded with furniture—which in those days was considered elegant—drove up to the door of the farmhouse. To their repeated knocking there was no response; one of the teamsters looked in through the uncurtained window; he gave a horrified153 cry. In the center of the room, ghastly and covered with blood, lay the body of John Hilyer; in his right hand he still grasped the pistol with which he had slain154 himself. He had bought the furniture the day before, and ordered it delivered at the house; he seemed to be in an unusually happy mood. What cause led to the deed none could conjecture155, and during all these years the old house had kept its secret. Not a person could be induced to approach the place after dark, as all declared it to be haunted.
When Philip returned night had fallen, dark and solemn; he dreaded157 to enter the room; the weird158 story impressed him with a nervousness unaccountable to himself; he had ever been of a skeptical159 turn, and had scoffed160 at spiritual phenomena161 and manifestations162 as creations of an overwrought brain. He felt tempted to leave the old house this night, he had a dread156 of the coming hours; then, he thought scornfully, it would look too much like running away because of a weird story, and—some unseen force seemed 132to restrain him; a whisper in the air—an unseen hand—seemed to be holding him.
He tried to shake himself out of the feeling, and said pettishly163: “What nonsense this is!—Much better to have gone on!” but he would not, neither could he go.
He gathered a great armful of wood from the old barn at the far end of the lot, and soon the blaze leaped up brightly; the room grew oppressively warm, the heat, together with the loss of sleep the night before, lulled164 his senses into drowsy165 nodding; then he dropped into deep sleep, with his head thrown back against the dark cushion, the dying fire playing over his sun-browned face fitfully.
Of a sudden he opened his eyes, wide awake on the instant; he did not stir, but he felt sure—sure that a hand was resting lightly on his shoulder, that a face almost touched his own; it seemed not the presence of one unknown, but rather of one for whom he had been waiting; he had not before realized this fact, but it now dawned upon him with solemn gladness. At once he seemed to know that it was for this that he had waited; like a dawning light it occurred to him that there is no such thing as accident, that all things proceed from cause to effect, that the intelligent power which is the source of all things cannot forsake167 His children; the law which is immutable168 to the least of His children is just as unalterable for Him; he realized that he had been led in this path. He did not seem 133to be thinking this; it was shown to him through the spiritual sense as though the search light of the soul had been thrown upon the facts for his guidance; his every physical effort seemed to be absorbed in the sense of hearing.
Some force other than his own compelled him to turn around; at that instant a sob sounded close beside him; it thrilled him like a blast of cold wind, but he was bound to his chair as though with iron bands. About the middle of the room he heard a rustling169 sound, but saw nothing except the indistinct shadows called forth by the dying fire; then a cry smote170 his ear, a sound full of fear and anguish171; gradually upon his sight grew the forms of a man and woman in agitated172 conversation; he stern and angry; she, with her face in her hands, sobbed173 bitterly; this appeared to melt the man’s anger, and bending above her bowed figure he kissed her bright hair. Behind him crept the man whose face Phil had seen beneath the battered hat, and dealt the other man a terrible blow with a hatchet174; the woman raised her face with an appalled175 shriek176, and with a mad ferocity he struck her to the floor; as she sank down the assailed man appeared to recover somewhat, and sought to defend himself; Phil could see the straining muscles, the tigerish ferocity of the assailant’s countenance, the failing struggles of the man on the defensive177, a falling back inertly178; when he lay ghastly, and cadaverous, the assailant seized him and dragged him out; not as one in fear, but fiercely, as though desirous of putting something he loathed179 out of his sight. 134Presently he returned, and stood looking down at the woman with strangely working features; he brought his hands together despairingly, as though bewailing his work; then a sudden wave of passion seemed to sweep over him, a wild frenzy180 of mingled181 love and hate; for an instant he clasped her form in mad embrace; then as though he loathed even the inanimate flesh, he bore her out of the house as he had carried the man. Phil could hear the fierce panting breath, and the vicious tread upon the porch outside.
For an instant Phil lost all consciousness of the room, of all circumstances, of even the heavy tread outside—it was as though his very spirit swooned; when he again became cognizant of his surroundings the murderer was peering through the open door; his eyes shone out of his ghastly face with a fierce, yet half affrighted, maniacal182 light. He strode across the room to the bed, and with angry gestures, he pulled the clothing hither and thither183; at last he seemed to find that for which he sought, a small packet tied in oiled silk. He walked to a panel in the wall, directly opposite the foot of the bed; he grasped the hound’s head by the muzzle184, and it looked as though the animal sprang to life; its eyes rolled wildly, it opened its jaws185 as though to devour186 the assailant, who tossed the packet into the wide-open mouth, which closed with a snap as though appeased187 by the sacrifice. The scene faded away; exhaustion188 held Phil a prisoner until far into the next day.
He returned to a consciousness of his surroundings with a shiver of affright, but as he 135looked out at the sunlit fields, and smelled the fresh dewy atmosphere, he thought his vision of the past night but the illusions of a dream.
“This close, stuffy189 room is quite enough to give one a nightmare,” he said, stretching his limbs; which felt sore and bruised; he also had a horrible sense of exhaustion.
He walked into the garden, and bathed his face in the stream; there was such fresh life in the atmosphere that his soul filled with the elasticity190 of hope, and his spirits rose to exaltation; after all, what is energy but hope put to use?
Yesterday his imagination lay dormant; to-day his purposed picture formed itself in his mind, in lineaments of beauty and glowing color. He ate his breakfast in healthy mood; he said to himself: “I’ll get out of this witch’s den10 to-day! I wouldn’t spend another night here—” a touch light as thistledown grazed his cheek; a breath from the unseen—a pressure on his shoulder, as of an invisible hand; he felt, without knowing the cause, that he could not go.
He arose and went into the house: “I wonder!” though what he wondered he did not say.
He took the sketch118 of the head he had drawn yesterday, and held it to the light, turning it from side to side. It was, line for line, the face of the murderer as he saw it in his vision; as he sat regarding the drawing thoughtfully, another phase of the vision—was it vision or dream? though the distinction between a vision and a dream might be a nice point for argument—but 136his mind dwelt with strange insistence191 upon the packet which he had seen put away.
“If I find that parcel it will prove that it was a vision, and it will determine my next step; though why I should go prying192 around this old house I do not know. The sketch of the head and this illusion also, may both be the effect of that old woman’s story; but—but—it doesn’t tally193. Well, here goes for the next move!” he said.
Was it but fancy, that a soft, happy sigh reached his ear? or was it but the summer breeze?
How like the unbroken links of a chain it all appeared; he had planned none of it, he could never have imagined himself in such a r?le; some volition other than his own had led him in a well-prepared way. No abrupt194 breaks, no jumps, no indecisions are necessary in our lives; when such is the case we are in fault; we fail to heed195 the signboards and the danger signals; we are shocked when we halt on the verge196 of a precipice197, or disgusted when we find that we have walked weary miles on the wrong road, all because we read the signs to suit our fancied pleasure, or plunged ahead and read them not at all.
His exalted198, happy mood left him; he grew restless and nervous; he was conscious of a stir all about him, a continuous vibration199; he could not sit still. At last he arose and walked over to the panel which he had, in his vision, seen opened; he passed his hands over the ornamental200 head, searching for a screw, bolt, or anything to 137indicate that any portion of it was movable; it seemed one solid piece of carving201.
“This is all nonsense! I have dreamed the whole thing!” But though he derided202, he could not rid himself of his unrest, or the intuition of a sweet presence urging him on.
He examined the alternate panel, and could detect no difference; he again returned, grasping the muzzle as he had seen the murderer do; he started, it felt cold to his hand; he tapped it with his knife, it gave forth a metallic203 sound; this was iron, the others, wood. He trembled with excitement as he searched for a hinge, spring, or other means of ingress; he no longer doubted being intuitively led. He placed himself as nearly as possible in the position he had witnessed, and grasped the muzzle in the same manner; a hot flush passed over his face, for a single instant his knees grew weak with superstitious204 fear as he felt the yielding of a tiny spring beneath the ends of his fingers. He pressed firmly upon it; the jaws flew apart, the eyes rolled so fiercely and so suddenly that it made him start back in affright; he thrust his arm into the opening thus formed, and drew forth the package wrapped in oiled silk, just as he had seen it in his vision—he could no longer doubt its being such. Something else he saw, but a warning click caused him to withdraw his hand; none too soon, the jaws closed like a steel trap.
He eagerly unfolded the parcel, it seemed that he knew previous to opening it what it would 138contain; the marriage certificate of John Hilyer, and Amanda Cosgrove.
He returned to his chair and sat looking at the paper thoughtfully; it was dated from a distant city, but he knew in some occult way that Amanda Cosgrove was of the country. I cannot express it better than by saying that the name wafted206 to him a breath of country air; the odor of buttercups, and a glint of their gold.
The package held another paper—a sealed will.
He drew a breath of relief, and experienced a glad sense of freedom, as though until now he had been bound to some onerous207 duty. He sat long with his hand pressed over his eyes, his senses deadened to all outside impressions; repeating over many times the name of Amanda Cosgrove; formulating208 slowly and distinctly his desire to see her.
At first all things waved and swayed, a conglomeration209 of darkness, shot with rays of light and color; gradually, there evolved from this a hilly country, verdant210 with grass, and beautified with many trees; a sunny valley with carpet of a brighter hue211, and fields of waving grain. A low, picturesque212 cottage stood in the shelter of a grove205; before the door stood a woman whose hair was like silver, and the face though sad and worn did not look old. She shaded her eyes with her hand, and looked wistfully in his direction; dimly outlined within the doorway213 shone—fairly shone—a face which his spirit recognized as her whose hand had rested upon his shoulder, whose spirit presence had been his guide in this search.
139Gradually the picture faded, and so great was his sense of loss that for a time his mind seemed a perfect blank. Then, a fever possessed him to sketch the cottage, the valley, the fair hillside, and the persons he had seen, and with whom he had been in spiritual communion. He worked with an eagerness and joy never before experienced, he delighted in every detail; he touched the fair, dimly seen face lovingly, lingeringly.
Three days later he left the old house; a half regret assailed him as it disappeared from view, for here he first saw the pure spirit whose occult influence was lifting him to a higher and purer life. He went direct to the city named in the marriage certificate; he found a record of it which gave that city as the residence of Amanda Cosgrove. He could find no further trace of her; the time was so distant, and the clew so slight; it was like searching for a drop of water in the sea to endeavor to find one insignificant214 individual amid the shifting population of a large city.
It would be less than interesting to follow Philip through his frequent and grievous disappointments.
During all the time a change was taking place in all his thoughts and feelings; from the ennui215 and disgust of the former time and former associates, he had grown into a healthy, hearty216 happiness in the present; putting the evil of the past wholly behind him, living in the good of each day as each day dawned; trying honestly and joyously217 to reach upward to a higher standard of thought and work. The presence of the 140sweet spirit was ever near him, prompting his laggard218 efforts, renewing his courage, and his faith in himself; chiding219 if at any time the evil spell of the old ways tempted him. I must do him the justice to say that it seldom occurred, because he had reached this happy knowledge, that so long as truth abides220 life cannot be wholly worthless, because the very life of hope is in truth. He came to feel a compassion—in the place of the past hatred—for his former associates, whose minds had become diseased; so long as we hate we too are touched with moral leprosy. He saw that none were so degraded but that some germ of good yet remained for future development; for good is the seed of the Infinite, and He will not destroy his own, though it be but in the proportion of one grain to a mountain of sand.
How strange that we should be taught that even the hairs of our heads are numbered—the mere material—and then believe that one pure spiritual ray shall go out in darkness. It may not be that the germ will be developed in this plane, but when the limitations and our own degradation221 of the flesh shall cease, the seed will be planted and fostered in the Beyond, and the trend of good can be no otherwise than toward perfection; all life must grow toward the light. Filled with such thoughts as these, he worked faithfully and conscientiously222.
One lovely afternoon he visited the art gallery; he had not been there for some time, and he went prepared to enjoy the treat; he took with him his favorite book, and sought a cozy223 141corner; for a time he read, then he wandered among the paintings until his eyes were satisfied with beauty; again returning to his corner and his book, enjoying his feast of good things.
It was growing late in the day; he would make one more excursion, then return to his room, feeling that it had been a well-spent afternoon. He walked slowly down the room, looking abstractedly upon the floor; thinking how strange that he had not been able to obtain a single trace of Amanda Cosgrove; the thought struck him coldly—that he saw John Hilyer carry her out as though dead—yet he felt that she still lived. He sighed, for several days he had not felt the sweet, haunting Presence; he missed it as one does a dear, familiar friend; he longed for the soft thrilling vibration.
Preoccupied224 with thought, he did not observe a lady standing before one of the paintings, and awkwardly stepped upon her dress; he turned to apologize, but speechless, held his hat poised225 in the air. Meeting a person for the first time, did never the feeling assail116 you that this one was not a stranger to you, although time or place of meeting you could not recall? So it was with him; his heart leaped in recognition, yet—he could not recall—what? It made his brain dizzy, his heart beat tumultuously, thought was in disorder226; the words he uttered seemed to him to have been spoken before, he was merely repeating them; he was as one in a dream, doing things without conscious volition. He went through the apology mechanically, stiffly, though he longed with all his soul to reach out his hands 142and clasp her in sweet embrace, but he turned coldly away, to be confronted by a picture; a country scene; the sloping hills, the woody heights, the velvet carpet of grass, the waving grain, the cottage half-embowered in trees, a woman with upraised hand, looking, as though to peer into futurity; line for line as he had seen it in his concentration, as he had painted it since; the coloring, the touch seemed identical.
He stooped to read the name: “The Hope of a Lifetime, by Maida Cosgrove.” He uttered an exclamation of astonishment228; the lady turned, regarding him strangely; he was intently studying the picture, and she turned again to depart. By what narrow chances do we lose or gain the desire of a lifetime, the fruition of our dearest hope—and humanity says—How sad an accident!
A gentleman passing raised his hat, with the salutation:
“Good-afternoon, Miss Cosgrove!”
Philip wheeled suddenly, trembling in every fibre of his body; like a brilliant sunlight the knowledge that this fair woman was she whose spirit had hovered229 over him, elevating and encouraging him, broke in upon his intelligence. The strange man was regarding him curiously230; Phil removed his hat, and addressed her in a formal manner: “I beg pardon! I am Philip Aultman. Will you excuse my boldness—are you related to Amanda Cosgrove?” he asked excitedly.
“She is my mother,” replied Maida with quiet dignity.
“I have some papers of value belonging to 143her, which I think she would be glad to obtain,” he explained.
The whole occurrence seemed informal, but a feeling of sympathy lay between them, as of old acquaintanceship. Philip spoke227 of the picture, and Maida replied that it was her home. It was with strange sensations that Philip the next day approached the house. He had given Maida no knowledge of the character of the papers in his possession, yet she had exhibited no surprise or curiosity, but rather as though she knew and appreciated his mission; he felt himself in a very awkward position.
How should he account to Amanda Cosgrove for their possession? What excuse had he for searching out her whereabouts? What did it concern him? He found it hard—impossible to answer these questions to himself; how then should he answer to her satisfaction? Could he say to her that it was through psychic231 knowledge?
His face burned at thought of the ridicule232 which would greet that statement, but—was it not true? In what other manner had he gained one iota233 of this knowledge? He was not yet strong enough to stand up and declare the truth in the face of skepticism and ridicule. Very many people enjoy antagonism234; it brings out their fighting qualities, and they feel very strong; but ridicule hits the very heart of their conceit235, and they weakly go down before it.
Phil drove up to the door feeling very weak indeed; all things had a familiar look; in his psychic condition, he had seen even the gray cat, 144that sunned itself on the door mat, and the tall hollyhocks, standing like red-coated sentinels, near the gate.
It seemed very proper when Amanda Cosgrove stepped forward to meet him, although his thought of the moment before had been: “What shall I say to her?”
Her first words were a surprise, and settled all difficulties.
“I knew that you would come! But I have waited so long!”
His way was very easy after that; he placed the papers and drawings in her hands; as she opened the marriage certificate, she sobbed aloud. “Oh, mother! Don’t grieve, mother!” cried Maida imploringly236.
“Oh, not for grief! not for grief, my child! This is greater joy than I have known in many a day! Poor, misguided John, he was to be pitied; but you, my Maida, have had to bear the stain of illegitimacy all these years! It has nearly broken my heart. I have seen your playmates slight you; I have heard them cast it in your face, and was powerless to prove the truth; and yet, my Maida never loved her mother the less,” she cried hysterically237.
“You could have proved it by the church record,” said Phil, in surprise that she should be ignorant on such a point.
Such however was the fact, living within a few miles of the proof of her marriage she and her child had been shunned238 and scorned, because of that ignorance. One thing only sustained her, the firm belief that some day all would be made right.
She became acquainted with John Hilyer through a young friend in the city; none of her people liked him, they bitterly opposed her seeing him. John, with all the fiery impetuosity of his nature, had fallen in love with her; it was mating the dove with the fierce bird of prey240; he fairly compelled her with his fiery persistence241. She at last eloped with him, and they were married; he loved her too truly to wrong her. For three months they traveled, he then made preparations to take her to his home. Often his fierce love frightened her; she adored him, but she was afraid of him.
He knew all of her family except one brother, whom he had never seen. The whole family misjudged him in thinking that he had wronged the girl; the brother whom he had never met endeavored to find them; but it was not until they were returning to the old home that he obtained a trace of them. When they were first married Amanda wished to write to her people, but John sternly forbade it.
It was night when they reached home; John kindled a fire, seated her in the great easy-chair with much ceremony, and with many fond words, and fierce kisses made his wife welcome.
He had scarcely left the house to care for the team which brought them, when her brother burst into the room; the happy smiles died upon her lips, never to return again. She trembled with affright; she knew that John might return at any moment and she feared his anger. She 146excitedly rose to her feet, and advanced to the center of the room, and as the accusation242 of shame left her brother’s lips, she sank upon her knees, sobbing243 forth her denial; at first he scoffed at her words; but as conviction of the truth was forced upon him, he begged her pardon, and stooped to kiss her bowed head; through the uncurtained window John witnessed the closing part of the scene.
In his hand he had a hatchet, with which to cut kindling244 for the fire; in an instant the demon144 of jealousy245 sprang to life full grown; he did not consider the absurdity246 of his thought—does jealousy ever consider? His mind held no thought but that this man was his wife’s lover, and the fancied knowledge drove him insane. He silently let himself into the room, creeping, creeping up behind them; as the brother stooped over to caress247 her, John dealt him a fearful blow; Amanda raised her face with a horrified cry; with an infuriated epithet248 he struck her, the blow was sufficiently249 hard to render her insensible, but her heavy garments saved her life. Regaining250 consciousness, the brother fought desperately251, but against a madman he had no chance in his favor.
When his opponent lay before him, a livid corpse252, still no compunction touched his conscience; he spurned253 the lifeless form with his foot, and dragged him out as he would have cast out a dead dog; he threw the body into the well at the end of the porch, and returned to the room.
Amanda recovered consciousness during the 147struggle between the two men, but she was without power either of speech or motion; horror held her dumb, her brain only held life. She tried to cry out but could not, she was like one in a trance, even when John lifted her in his arms, and cast her from him, she had little sense of the horror of her situation; something caught her, and with a sudden jerk, she felt herself suspended. She had no idea of what held her, or what would become of her should the fabric254 give way. Instinctively255 she threw up her arm as her head came in contact with a timber, and for a few seconds she hung there without consciousness enough to make an effort.
Then a sudden terror of the unknown shook her, and she made an effort to raise herself; it was well for her that she could not see the dizzy depth beneath her, in such situations fear is our worst enemy. She cautiously raised herself by a board above her head, until she could loosen her sleeve from a large hook, upon which it had caught; she then easily raised herself until she could climb over the low curb256, and stood upon the ground outside; here she sank down, weak and trembling for a few minutes. Then, though a chill fear assailed her, she determined to go into the house; she wondered where her brother was, that he did not come to her rescue; but she must go in! John, her John, would surely not harm her knowingly; she dragged herself along wearily, holding on to the side of the house for support; she felt so sick and tired.
She looked in through one of the long windows, the candle had been extinguished long 148since by a draught257 of wind, the fire had burned low, and only an occasional fitful blaze leaped up, and lighted the room intermittently258; in one of the flashes she saw John lying in the middle of the floor.
“Poor fellow, he is sorry now that he gave way to his quick temper, and he is lying there grieving. I wonder where Brother Ernest is?”
She pulled herself slowly into the room; the wall clock ticked loudly, its long pendulum seeming to take a preternatural sweep; as she neared the recumbent figure the fire crackled ominously, and the blaze flared up redly, like blood; she shivered as she bent259 over the recumbent figure. A brand fell to the earth, a bright flame shot up lighting all the room, and the pallid260 face of the dead man. The horror and desolation of all things smote her with sudden madness.
Months afterward261 she wandered into her old home; it was in dead of winter, she was half naked, white haired, wan9, and emaciated262; her father and mother remembered nothing, save that she was their child. For weeks she lay on the bed, white and silent, or sat in an easy-chair beside a sunny window, propped263 up with pillows, but when her baby girl was laid in her arms she looked at it with the light of love and reason in her sad eyes; but the same silence which had characterized her lunacy, remained in her sanity264. Of what use to explain to them those awful incidents; they did not believe that she was John Hilyer’s wife—why should she make further explanation to be disbelieved? 149She was either morbidly265 wrong, or—still a little unbalanced by all that she had endured.
She named her babe Maida Hilyer, but all persisted in calling the child Cosgrove.
“The name doesn’t matter,” she said sadly; but later when she saw her supposed sin visited upon the innocent child she cried aloud to the All Merciful to right her wrong.
The ways of the All Wise are not our ways, very fortunately, or things would be greatly muddled266. The old father and mother died, but Amanda and her child remained at the farm.
Maida was eighteen, a gentle, rarely thoughtful girl; her mother’s sorrow seemed to have left its impress on her character and mind; she early showed a decided55 artistic talent, which her mother took pains to cultivate; all went well until Maida gained recognition; then that jealousy which ever seems to lie in wait for unpropitious circumstances, seized upon the name she bore to taunt267 her.
Poor Maida! She threw herself into her mother’s arms, ready to give up her chosen profession. Her mother said sadly: “Be brave, my child! I know that some day the truth will come to light!”
Maida thought continually of her mother’s words, and with all her soul sought to reach the one who she felt was destined268 to help right the grievous wrong; but she continued her work as sweetly and firmly as though no wound was there.
One night her mother dreamed of the old house, it looked as it did the night of the 150tragedy; she saw a strange form there, and she reached out her hands supplicatingly, beseeching269 his help; to her spiritual sense it was made manifest that her wish should be accomplished270; she told this to Maida, and the two talked of little else, and thought of it without cessation, until night after night in her dreams Maida stood by that stranger’s form, urging him to clear up the mystery.
The will inclosed with the certificate gave all of his property to his “beloved wife, Amanda Cosgrove Hilyer.”
There was no more cause to taunt Maida, and there was no opposition271 to Amanda’s taking possession of the property, which necessitated272 a visit to the place. Amanda walked silently about: “Poor John! Poor John!” she said pathetically; they looked shudderingly273 down into the depths of the old well, and as though some occult influence prompted her, Amanda said, “I wonder what became of brother Ernest. No one ever saw him after that time; I wish that I knew!”
Philip thought it far better that she did not know, therefore he kept silence.
The hook upon which Amanda had caught was still firmly imbedded in the beam; in the elder Mrs. Hilyer’s day it had been used to suspend butter and cream into the cool depths below.
Philip showed them the secret panel, and in doing so discovered another secret for himself; the lower portion of the panel formed a drawer; as long as the drawer remained open, the mouth of the dog would not close, but as the drawer 151was shut, the mouth came together with a vicious snap, as though the thing were possessed of life. This drawer contained all of John Hilyer’s papers, and a large sum of money; and here also they found the story of the lonely heart life of a man of strong feeling, and untaught, ungoverned passions; a sad record of a noble soul gone astray.
Phil and his wife Maida are very happy, and with the gentle, white-haired mother, they live in the pleasant cottage where Phil in his concentration first saw them.
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1
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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3
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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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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enticement
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| n.诱骗，诱人 | |
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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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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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12
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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13
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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indigent
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的 | |
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15
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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16
enervating
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| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的现在分词 ) | |
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17
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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19
detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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21
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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22
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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23
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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24
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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25
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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27
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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28
precursor
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| n.先驱者；前辈；前任；预兆；先兆 | |
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29
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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32
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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33
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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34
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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35
tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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36
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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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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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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40
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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41
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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42
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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43
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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44
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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45
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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46
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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47
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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48
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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49
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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50
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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51
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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52
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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53
reverberation
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| 反响； 回响； 反射； 反射物 | |
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54
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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55
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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56
primly
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| adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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57
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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58
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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59
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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60
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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61
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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62
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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63
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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64
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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65
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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66
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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67
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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68
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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69
bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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70
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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71
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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72
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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73
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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74
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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75
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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76
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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77
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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78
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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79
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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80
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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81
crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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82
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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83
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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84
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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85
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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86
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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87
accentuate
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| v.着重，强调 | |
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88
tinge
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|
| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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89
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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90
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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91
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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92
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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93
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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94
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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95
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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96
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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97
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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99
beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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100
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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101
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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102
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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103
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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104
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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105
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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106
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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107
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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108
curdling
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| n.凝化v.（使）凝结( curdle的现在分词 ) | |
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109
disastrous
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|
| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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110
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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111
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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112
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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113
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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114
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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115
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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116
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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117
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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118
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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119
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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120
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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121
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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122
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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123
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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124
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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125
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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126
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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127
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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128
averse
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|
| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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129
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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130
winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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131
transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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132
subjugation
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| n.镇压，平息，征服 | |
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133
specious
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| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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134
conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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135
stigmatized
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| v.使受耻辱，指责，污辱( stigmatize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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137
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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138
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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139
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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140
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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141
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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142
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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143
pandemonium
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| n.喧嚣，大混乱 | |
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144
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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145
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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146
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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147
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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148
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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149
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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150
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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151
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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152
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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153
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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154
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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155
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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156
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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157
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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158
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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159
skeptical
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| adj.怀疑的，多疑的 | |
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160
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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162
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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163
pettishly
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164
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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165
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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166
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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167
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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168
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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169
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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170
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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171
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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172
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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173
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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174
hatchet
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| n.短柄小斧；v.扼杀 | |
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175
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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176
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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177
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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178
inertly
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| adv.不活泼地，无生气地 | |
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179
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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180
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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181
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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182
maniacal
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| adj.发疯的 | |
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183
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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184
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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185
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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186
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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187
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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188
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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189
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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190
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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191
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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192
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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193
tally
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|
| n.计数器，记分，一致，测量；vt.计算，记录，使一致；vi.计算，记分，一致 | |
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194
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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195
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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196
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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197
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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198
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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199
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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200
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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201
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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202
derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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onerous
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| adj.繁重的 | |
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208
formulating
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| v.构想出( formulate的现在分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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209
conglomeration
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| n.团块，聚集，混合物 | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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218
laggard
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| n.落后者；adj.缓慢的，落后的 | |
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chiding
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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abides
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| 容忍( abide的第三人称单数 )； 等候； 逗留； 停留 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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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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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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iota
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| n.些微，一点儿 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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243
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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247
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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252
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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253
spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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254
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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256
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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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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258
intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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259
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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260
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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261
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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263
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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264
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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266
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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267
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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268
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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269
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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270
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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271
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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272
necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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273
shudderingly
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