The fine warm rain of seven o'clock, which had since risen in a kind of luminous3 mist about the tree tops, now floated far overhead in a deep blue sky, and the day was settling down into a blaze of golden light. It was one of those days peculiar4 to Somerset and North Devon, when the orchards5 shine and the meadows seem to add a radiance of their own, so brilliantly soft are the colourings of grass and foliage7.
The inn-keeper's daughter, a little maiden8 with a simple country loveliness, presently entered with a foaming9 pewter mug, enquired10 after my welfare, and went out again. Apparently12 she had not noticed the old man sitting in the settle by the bow window, nor had he, for his part, so much as once turned his head in our direction.
Under ordinary circumstances I should probably have given no thought to this other occupant of the room; but the fact that it was supposed to be reserved for my private use, and the singular thing that he sat looking aimlessly out of the window, with no attempt to engage me in conversation, drew my eyes more than once somewhat curiously13 upon him, and I soon caught myself wondering why he sat there so silently, and always with averted14 head.
He was, I saw, a rather bent15 old man in rustic dress, and the skin of his face was wrinkled like that of an apple; corduroy trousers were caught up with a string below the knee, and he wore a sort of brown fustian16 jacket that was very much faded. His thin hand rested upon a stoutish17 stick. He wore no hat and carried none, and I noticed that his head, covered with silvery hair, was finely shaped and gave the impression of something noble.
Though rather piqued18 by his studied disregard of my presence, I came to the conclusion that he probably had something to do with the little hostel19 and had a perfect right to use this room with freedom, and I finished my luncheon without breaking the silence and then took the settle opposite to smoke a pipe before going on my way.
Through the open window came the scents20 of the blossoming fruit trees; the orchard6 was drenched21 in sunshine and the branches danced lazily in the breeze; the grass below fairly shone with white and yellow daisies, and the red roses climbing in profusion23 over the casement24 mingled25 their perfume with the sweetly penetrating26 odour of the sea.
It was a place to dawdle27 in, to lie and dream away a whole afternoon, watching the sleepy butterflies and listening to the chorus of birds which seemed to fill every corner of the sky. Indeed, I was already debating in my mind whether to linger and enjoy it all instead of taking the strenuous28 pathway over the hills, when the old rustic in the settle opposite suddenly turned his face towards me for the first time and began to speak.
His voice had a quiet dreamy note in it that was quite in harmony with the day and the scene, but it sounded far away, I thought, almost as though it came to me from outside where the shadows were weaving their eternal tissue of dreams upon the garden floor. Moreover, there was no trace in it of the rough quality one might naturally have expected, and, now that I saw the full face of the speaker for the first time, I noted29 with something like a start that the deep, gentle eyes seemed far more in keeping with the timbre30 of the voice than with the rough and very countrified appearance of the clothes and manner. His voice set pleasant waves of sound in motion towards me, and the actual words, if I remember rightly, were—
"You are a stranger in these parts?" or "Is not this part of the country strange to you?"
There was no "sir," nor any outward and visible sign of the deference31 usually paid by real country folk to the town-bred visitor, but in its place a gentleness, almost a sweetness, of polite sympathy that was far more of a compliment than either.
I answered that I was wandering on foot through a part of the country that was wholly new to me, and that I was surprised not to find a place of such idyllic32 loveliness marked upon my map.
"I have lived here all my life," he said, with a sigh, "and am never tired of coming back to it again."
"I have moved," he answered briefly34, adding after a pause in which his eyes seemed to wander wistfully to the wealth of blossoms beyond the window; "but I am almost sorry, for nowhere else have I found the sunshine lie so warmly, the flowers smell so sweetly, or the winds and streams make such tender music. . . ."
His voice died away into a thin stream of sound that lost itself in the rustle35 of the rose-leaves climbing in at the window, for he turned his head away from me as he spoke36 and looked out into the garden. But it was impossible to conceal37 my surprise, and I raised my eyes in frank astonishment38 on hearing so poetic39 an utterance40 from such a figure of a man, though at the same time realising that it was not in the least inappropriate, and that, in fact, no other sort of expression could have properly been expected from him.
"I am sure you are right," I answered at length, when it was clear he had ceased speaking; "or there is something of enchantment41 here—of real fairy-like enchantment—that makes me think of the visions of childhood days, before one knew anything of—of—"
I had been oddly drawn42 into his vein43 of speech, some inner force compelling me. But here the spell passed and I could not catch the thoughts that had a moment before opened a long vista44 before my inner vision.
"To tell you the truth," I concluded lamely45, "the place fascinates me and I am in two minds about going further—"
Even at this stage I remember thinking it odd that I should be talking like this with a stranger whom I met in a country inn, for it has always been one of my failings that to strangers my manner is brief to surliness. It was as though we were figures meeting in a dream, speaking without sound, obeying laws not operative in the everyday working world, and about to play with a new scale of space and time perhaps. But my astonishment passed quickly into an entirely46 different feeling when I became aware that the old man opposite had turned his head from the window again, and was regarding me with eyes so bright they seemed almost to shine with an inner flame. His gaze was fixed47 upon my face with an intense ardour, and his whole manner had suddenly become alert and concentrated. There was something about him I now felt for the first time that made little thrills of excitement run up and down my back. I met his look squarely, but with an inward tremor48.
"Stay, then, a little while longer," he said in a much lower and deeper voice than before; "stay, and I will teach you something of the purpose of my coming."
"You have a special purpose then—in coming back?" I asked, hardly knowing what I was saying.
"To call away someone," he went on in the same thrilling voice, "someone who is not quite ready to come, but who is needed elsewhere for a worthier51 purpose." There was a sadness in his manner that mystified me more than ever.
"You mean—?" I began, with an unaccountable access of trembling.
"I have come for someone who must soon move, even as I have moved."
He looked me through and through with a dreadfully piercing gaze, but I met his eyes with a full straight stare, trembling though I was, and I was aware that something stirred within me that had never stirred before, though for the life of me I could not have put a name to it, or have analysed its nature. Something lifted and rolled away. For one single second I understood clearly that the past and the future exist actually side by side in one immense Present; that it was I who moved to and fro among shifting, protean53 appearances.
The old man dropped his eyes from my face, and the momentary54 glimpse of a mightier55 universe passed utterly56 away. Reason regained57 its sway over a dull, limited kingdom.
"Come to-night," I heard the old man say, "come to me to-night into the Wood of the Dead. Come at midnight—"
Involuntarily I clutched the arm of the settle for support, for I then felt that I was speaking with someone who knew more of the real things that are and will be, than I could ever know while in the body, working through the ordinary channels of sense—and this curious half-promise of a partial lifting of the veil had its undeniable effect upon me.
The breeze from the sea had died away outside, and the blossoms were still. A yellow butterfly floated lazily past the window. The song of the birds hushed—I smelt58 the sea—I smelt the perfume of heated summer air rising from fields and flowers, the ineffable59 scents of June and of the long days of the year—and with it, from countless60 green meadows beyond, came the hum of myriad61 summer life, children's voices, sweet pipings, and the sound of water falling.
I knew myself to be on the threshold of a new order of experience—of an ecstasy62. Something drew me forth63 with a sense of inexpressible yearning64 towards the being of this strange old man in the window seat, and for a moment I knew what it was to taste a mighty65 and wonderful sensation, and to touch the highest pinnacle66 of joy I have ever known. It lasted for less than a second, and was gone; but in that brief instant of time the same terrible lucidity67 came to me that had already shown me how the past and future exist in the present, and I realised and understood that pleasure and pain are one and the same force, for the joy I had just experienced included also all the pain I ever had felt, or ever could feel. . . .
The sunshine grew to dazzling radiance, faded, passed away. The shadows paused in their dance upon the grass, deepened a moment, and then melted into air. The flowers of the fruit trees laughed with their little silvery laughter as the wind sighed over their radiant eyes the old, old tale of its personal love. Once or twice a voice called my name. A wonderful sensation of lightness and power began to steal over me.
Suddenly the door opened and the inn-keeper's daughter came in. By all ordinary standards, her's was a charming country loveliness, born of the stars and wild-flowers, of moonlight shining through autumn mists upon the river and the fields; yet, by contrast with the higher order of beauty I had just momentarily been in touch with, she seemed almost ugly. How dull her eyes, how thin her voice, how vapid68 her smile, and insipid69 her whole presentment.
For a moment she stood between me and the occupant of the window seat while I counted out the small change for my meal and for her services; but when, an instant later, she moved aside, I saw that the settle was empty and that there was no longer anyone in the room but our two selves.
This discovery was no shock to me; indeed, I had almost expected it, and the man had gone just as a figure goes out of a dream, causing no surprise and leaving me as part and parcel of the same dream without breaking of continuity. But, as soon as I had paid my bill and thus resumed in very practical fashion the thread of my normal consciousness, I turned to the girl and asked her if she knew the old man who had been sitting in the window seat, and what he had meant by the Wood of the Dead.
The maiden started visibly, glancing quickly round the empty room, but answering simply that she had seen no one. I described him in great detail, and then, as the description grew clearer, she turned a little pale under her pretty sunburn and said very gravely that it must have been the ghost.
"Ghost! What ghost?"
"Oh, the village ghost," she said quietly, coming closer to my chair with a little nervous movement of genuine alarm, and adding in a lower voice, "He comes before a death, they say!"
It was not difficult to induce the girl to talk, and the story she told me, shorn of the superstition70 that had obviously gathered with the years round the memory of a strangely picturesque71 figure, was an interesting and peculiar one.
The inn, she said, was originally a farmhouse72, occupied by a yeoman farmer, evidently of a superior, if rather eccentric, character, who had been very poor until he reached old age, when a son died suddenly in the Colonies and left him an unexpected amount of money, almost a fortune.
The old man thereupon altered no whit22 his simple manner of living, but devoted73 his income entirely to the improvement of the village and to the assistance of its inhabitants; he did this quite regardless of his personal likes and dislikes, as if one and all were absolutely alike to him, objects of a genuine and impersonal74 benevolence75. People had always been a little afraid of the man, not understanding his eccentricities77, but the simple force of this love for humanity changed all that in a very short space of time; and before he died he came to be known as the Father of the Village and was held in great love and veneration78 by all.
A short time before his end, however, he began to act queerly. He spent his money just as usefully and wisely, but the shock of sudden wealth after a life of poverty, people said, had unsettled his mind. He claimed to see things that others did not see, to hear voices, and to have visions. Evidently, he was not of the harmless, foolish, visionary order, but a man of character and of great personal force, for the people became divided in their opinions, and the vicar, good man, regarded and treated him as a "special case." For many, his name and atmosphere became charged almost with a spiritual influence that was not of the best. People quoted texts about him; kept when possible out of his way, and avoided his house after dark. None understood him, but though the majority loved him, an element of dread52 and mystery became associated with his name, chiefly owing to the ignorant gossip of the few.
A grove79 of pine trees behind the farm—the girl pointed80 them out to me on the slope of the hill—he said was the Wood of the Dead, because just before anyone died in the village he saw them walk into that wood, singing. None who went in ever came out again. He often mentioned the names to his wife, who usually published them to all the inhabitants within an hour of her husband's confidence; and it was found that the people he had seen enter the wood—died. On warm summer nights he would sometimes take an old stick and wander out, hatless, under the pines, for he loved this wood, and used to say he met all his old friends there, and would one day walk in there never to return. His wife tried to break him gently off this habit, but he always had his own way; and once, when she followed and found him standing76 under a great pine in the thickest portion of the grove, talking earnestly to someone she could not see, he turned and rebuked81 her very gently, but in such a way that she never repeated the experiment, saying—
"You should never interrupt me, Mary, when I am talking with the others; for they teach me, remember, wonderful things, and I must learn all I can before I go to join them."
This story went like wild-fire through the village, increasing with every repetition, until at length everyone was able to give an accurate description of the great veiled figures the woman declared she had seen moving among the trees where her husband stood. The innocent pine-grove now became positively82 haunted, and the title of "Wood of the Dead" clung naturally as if it had been applied83 to it in the ordinary course of events by the compilers of the Ordnance84 Survey.
On the evening of his ninetieth birthday the old man went up to his wife and kissed her. His manner was loving, and very gentle, and there was something about him besides, she declared afterwards, that made her slightly in awe85 of him and feel that he was almost more of a spirit than a man.
He kissed her tenderly on both cheeks, but his eyes seemed to look right through her as he spoke.
"Dearest wife," he said, "I am saying good-bye to you, for I am now going into the Wood of the Dead, and I shall not return. Do not follow me, or send to search, but be ready soon to come upon the same journey yourself."
The good woman burst into tears and tried to hold him, but he easily slipped from her hands, and she was afraid to follow him. Slowly she saw him cross the field in the sunshine, and then enter the cool shadows of the grove, where he disappeared from her sight.
That same night, much later, she woke to find him lying peacefully by her side in bed, with one arm stretched out towards her, dead. Her story was half believed, half doubted at the time, but in a very few years afterwards it evidently came to be accepted by all the countryside. A funeral service was held to which the people flocked in great numbers, and everyone approved of the sentiment which led the widow to add the words, "The Father of the Village," after the usual texts which appeared upon the stone over his grave.
This, then, was the story I pieced together of the village ghost as the little inn-keeper's daughter told it to me that afternoon in the parlour of the inn.
"But you're not the first to say you've seen him," the girl concluded; "and your description is just what we've always heard, and that window, they say, was just where he used to sit and think, and think, when he was alive, and sometimes, they say, to cry for hours together."
"And would you feel afraid if you had seen him?" I asked, for the girl seemed strangely moved and interested in the whole story.
"I think so," she answered timidly. "Surely, if he spoke to me. He did speak to you, didn't he, sir?" she asked after a slight pause.
"He said he had come for someone."
"Come for someone," she repeated. "Did he say—" she went on falteringly86.
"No, he did not say for whom," I said quickly, noticing the sudden shadow on her face and the tremulous voice.
"Are you really sure, sir?"
"Oh, quite sure," I answered cheerfully. "I did not even ask him." The girl looked at me steadily87 for nearly a whole minute as though there were many things she wished to tell me or to ask. But she said nothing, and presently picked up her tray from the table and walked slowly out of the room.
Instead of keeping to my original purpose and pushing on to the next village over the hills, I ordered a room to be prepared for me at the inn, and that afternoon I spent wandering about the fields and lying under the fruit trees, watching the white clouds sailing out over the sea. The Wood of the Dead I surveyed from a distance, but in the village I visited the stone erected88 to the memory of the "Father of the Village"—who was thus, evidently, no mythical89 personage—and saw also the monuments of his fine unselfish spirit: the schoolhouse he built, the library, the home for the aged90 poor, and the tiny hospital.
That night, as the clock in the church tower was striking half-past eleven, I stealthily left the inn and crept through the dark orchard and over the hayfield in the direction of the hill whose southern slope was clothed with the Wood of the Dead. A genuine interest impelled91 me to the adventure, but I also was obliged to confess to a certain sinking in my heart as I stumbled along over the field in the darkness, for I was approaching what might prove to be the birth-place of a real country myth, and a spot already lifted by the imaginative thoughts of a considerable number of people into the region of the haunted and ill-omened.
The inn lay below me, and all round it the village clustered in a soft black shadow unrelieved by a single light. The night was moonless, yet distinctly luminous, for the stars crowded the sky. The silence of deep slumber92 was everywhere; so still, indeed, that every time my foot kicked against a stone I thought the sound must be heard below in the village and waken the sleepers93.
I climbed the hill slowly, thinking chiefly of the strange story of the noble old man who had seized the opportunity to do good to his fellows the moment it came his way, and wondering why the causes that operate ceaselessly behind human life did not always select such admirable instruments. Once or twice a night-bird circled swiftly over my head, but the bats had long since gone to rest, and there was no other sign of life stirring.
Then, suddenly, with a singular thrill of emotion, I saw the first trees of the Wood of the Dead rise in front of me in a high black wall. Their crests94 stood up like giant spears against the starry95 sky; and though there was no perceptible movement of the air on my cheek I heard a faint, rushing sound among their branches as the night breeze passed to and fro over their countless little needles. A remote, hushed murmur96 rose overhead and died away again almost immediately; for in these trees the wind seems to be never absolutely at rest, and on the calmest day there is always a sort of whispering music among their branches.
For a moment I hesitated on the edge of this dark wood, and listened intently. Delicate perfumes of earth and bark stole out to meet me. Impenetrable darkness faced me. Only the consciousness that I was obeying an order, strangely given, and including a mighty privilege, enabled me to find the courage to go forward and step in boldly under the trees.
Instantly the shadows closed in upon me and "something" came forward to meet me from the centre of the darkness. It would be easy enough to meet my imagination half-way with fact, and say that a cold hand grasped my own and led me by invisible paths into the unknown depths of the grove; but at any rate, without stumbling, and always with the positive knowledge that I was going straight towards the desired object, I pressed on confidently and securely into the wood. So dark was it that, at first, not a single star-beam pierced the roof of branches overhead; and, as we moved forward side by side, the trees shifted silently past us in long lines, row upon row, squadron upon squadron, like the units of a vast, soundless army.
And, at length, we came to a comparatively open space where the trees halted upon us for a while, and, looking up, I saw the white river of the sky beginning to yield to the influence of a new light that now seemed spreading swiftly across the heavens.
"It is the dawn coming," said the voice at my side that I certainly recognised, but which seemed almost like a whispering from the trees, "and we are now in the heart of the Wood of the Dead."
We seated ourselves on a moss-covered boulder97 and waited the coming of the sun. With marvellous swiftness, it seemed to me, the light in the east passed into the radiance of early morning, and when the wind awoke and began to whisper in the tree tops, the first rays of the risen sun fell between the trunks and rested in a circle of gold at our feet.
"Now, come with me," whispered my companion in the same deep voice, "for time has no existence here, and that which I would show you is already there!"
We trod gently and silently over the soft pine needles. Already the sun was high over our heads, and the shadows of the trees coiled closely about their feet. The wood became denser98 again, but occasionally we passed through little open bits where we could smell the hot sunshine and the dry, baked pine needles. Then, presently, we came to the edge of the grove, and I saw a hayfield lying in the blaze of day, and two horses basking99 lazily with switching tails in the shafts100 of a laden101 hay-waggon.
So complete and vivid was the sense of reality, that I remember the grateful realisation of the cool shade where we sat and looked out upon the hot world beyond.
The last pitchfork had tossed up its fragrant102 burden, and the great horses were already straining in the shafts after the driver, as he walked slowly in front with one hand upon their bridles103. He was a stalwart fellow, with sunburned neck and hands. Then, for the first time, I noticed, perched aloft upon the trembling throne of hay, the figure of a slim young girl. I could not see her face, but her brown hair escaped in disorder104 from a white sun-bonnet, and her still browner hands held a well-worn hay rake. She was laughing and talking with the driver, and he, from time to time, cast up at her ardent105 glances of admiration—glances that won instant smiles and soft blushes in response.
The cart presently turned into the roadway that skirted the edge of the wood where we were sitting. I watched the scene with intense interest and became so much absorbed in it that I quite forgot the manifold, strange steps by which I was permitted to become a spectator.
"Come down and walk with me," cried the young fellow, stopping a moment in front of the horses and opening wide his arms. "Jump! and I'll catch you!"
"Oh, oh," she laughed, and her voice sounded to me as the happiest, merriest laughter I had ever heard from a girl's throat. "Oh, oh! that's all very well. But remember I'm Queen of the Hay, and I must ride!"
"Then I must come and ride beside you," he cried, and began at once to climb up by way of the driver's seat. But, with a peal106 of silvery laughter, she slipped down easily over the back of the hay to escape him, and ran a little way along the road. I could see her quite clearly, and noticed the charming, natural grace of her movements, and the loving expression in her eyes as she looked over her shoulder to make sure he was following. Evidently, she did not wish to escape for long, certainly not for ever.
In two strides the big, brown swain was after her, leaving the horses to do as they pleased. Another second and his arms would have caught the slender waist and pressed the little body to his heart. But, just at that instant, the old man beside me uttered a peculiar cry. It was low and thrilling, and it went through me like a sharp sword.
HE had called her by her own name—and she had heard.
For a second she halted, glancing back with frightened eyes. Then, with a brief cry of despair, the girl swerved107 aside and dived in swiftly among the shadows of the trees.
But the young man saw the sudden movement and cried out to her passionately—
"Not that way, my love! Not that way! It's the Wood of the Dead!"
She threw a laughing glance over her shoulder at him, and the wind caught her hair and drew it out in a brown cloud under the sun. But the next minute she was close beside me, lying on the breast of my companion, and I was certain I heard the words repeatedly uttered with many sighs: "Father, you called, and I have come. And I come willingly, for I am very, very tired."
At any rate, so the words sounded to me, and mingled with them I seemed to catch the answer in that deep, thrilling whisper I already knew: "And you shall sleep, my child, sleep for a long, long time, until it is time for you to begin the journey again."
In that brief second of time I had recognised the face and voice of the inn-keeper's daughter, but the next minute a dreadful wail108 broke from the lips of the young man, and the sky grew suddenly as dark as night, the wind rose and began to toss the branches about us, and the whole scene was swallowed up in a wave of utter blackness.
Again the chill fingers seemed to seize my hand, and I was guided by the way I had come to the edge of the wood, and crossing the hayfield still slumbering109 in the starlight, I crept back to the inn and went to bed.
A year later I happened to be in the same part of the country, and the memory of the strange summer vision returned to me with the added softness of distance. I went to the old village and had tea under the same orchard trees at the same inn.
But the little maid of the inn did not show her face, and I took occasion to enquire11 of her father as to her welfare and her whereabouts.
"Married, no doubt," I laughed, but with a strange feeling that clutched at my heart.
"No, sir," replied the inn-keeper sadly, "not married—though she was just going to be—but dead. She got a sunstroke in the hayfields, just a few days after you were here, if I remember rightly, and she was gone from us in less than a week."
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1
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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10
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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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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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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stoutish
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| 略胖的 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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hostel
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| n.（学生）宿舍，招待所 | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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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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27
dawdle
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| vi.浪费时间；闲荡 | |
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28
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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29
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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30
timbre
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| n.音色，音质 | |
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31
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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32
idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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33
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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34
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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35
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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36
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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37
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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38
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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39
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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40
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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41
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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42
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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43
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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44
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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45
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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46
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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47
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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48
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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49
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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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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51
worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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52
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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53
protean
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| adj.反复无常的；变化自如的 | |
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54
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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57
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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59
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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62
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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71
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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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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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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74
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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76
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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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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78
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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79
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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80
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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81
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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83
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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84
ordnance
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| n.大炮，军械 | |
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85
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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86
falteringly
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| 口吃地，支吾地 | |
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87
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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88
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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89
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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90
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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91
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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92
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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93
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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94
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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95
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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96
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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97
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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98
denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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99
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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100
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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101
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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102
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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103
bridles
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| 约束( bridle的名词复数 )； 限动器； 马笼头； 系带 | |
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104
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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105
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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106
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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107
swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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109
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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