Ingeborg crept away down the passage with the sound in her ears of the key being turned in the lock behind her.
She was crushed. That Robert should think she had never loved him, that he should not even let her tell him how much she had and did! She stared out of the little window at the foot of the stairs at the untidy vegetables in the garden. This was the quality of life—Brussels sprouts1, and a door being locked behind one. It was all grey and difficult and tragic2. She had hurt Robert, offended him. He was in there thinking she didn't love him. What he had said was peculiarly shattering coming from a mouth that had been always kind. Yet what was there to do but this? The alternative, it seemed, was somebody's dying; and if the children did live there would be the death of the spirit, the decay of all lovely things in the home, the darkening of all light; there would be neglect, apathy4, an utter running to seed. But she felt guilty and conscience-stricken. She was no longer sure she was right. Perhaps it was indeed her duty to go on, perhaps she was indeed being wicked and cruel. The clearness of vision that had been hers at Zoppot was blurred5; she was confused, infinitely6 distressed8. Yet through the distress7 and confusion there kept on jabbing something like a little spear of light, and always it pointed9 in this one direction....
She stood leaning against the wall by the open window, a miserable10 mixture of doubt and conviction, remorse11 and determination. All her life she had been servile—servile with the sudden rare tremendous insurrections that upheave certain natures brought up in servility, swift tempests more devastating12 than the steady fighting of systematic13 rebels. Her insurrections were epoch-making. When they occurred the destiny of an entire family was changed. Fathers and husbands were not prepared for anything but continued acquiescence14 in one so constantly acquiescent15. As far as she was concerned they felt they might sleep peacefully in their beds. Then this obedient thing, this pliable17 uncontradicting thing would return, for instance, from an illicit18 trip abroad, betrothed19 to an unknown foreigner, and somehow in spite of violent opposition20 marry him; or, as in this second volcanic21 upheaval22, with no preliminaries whatever, refuse point blank—the final effect on Herr Dremmel's mind of her incoherence was a point blankness—to live with her husband as his wife.
Behind the locked door his anger was as great as her distressed confusion outside it. She was to be his wife but not his wife. Under his roof. A perpetual irritation23. She had decreed, this woman who had nothing to decree, that there were to be no more Dremmels. The indignation of the thwarted24 ancestor was heavy upon him. Her moral obliquity25 shocked him, her disregard for the give and take necessary if a civilised community is to continue efficient. How was he going to work with that constant reminder26 about his house of his past placidities? Already it had begun, the annoyance27, the hindering, for here he was sitting in front of his samples making mistakes in weighing, adding up wrong, forced by humiliatingly28 different results each time to count the grains over and over again.
Driven by the stress of the situation to unfairness, he remembered with a kind of bitter affection those widows who had darkened his past so soothingly29 before his marriage, the emotional peace their bony dustiness, their bonneted30 dinginess31 had secured him. They had been, he perceived, like a dark blind shading his eyes from the tormenting32 glare of too much domesticity. The most infuriated of that black and blessed band had been better than this threatening excess of relationship. Not one had ever come between him and his steady reaching forward. Not one had even once caused him to count his grains twice over. A man who wishes to work, he told himself, must clear his life of women; of all women, that is—for there are certain elementary actions connected with saucepans and bedmaking that only women will do—except widows. A wife who is not a wife and who yet persists in looking as if she were one, can be nothing but a goad33 and a burden for an honest man. Either she should look like some one used up and finished or she should continue to discharge her honourable34 functions until such time as she developed the physical unattractiveness that placed her definitely on the list of women one respects. That Ingeborg should choose the moment when she seemed younger and rounder than ever to revolt against Duty and Providence35 appeared to him in his first wrath36 deliberately37 malicious38. He was amazed. He could not believe he was being called out of his important and serious work, beckoned39 out of it just when it was going so well, in order to be hurt, in order to be made acquainted with pain, and by her of all people in the world whom he used to call—surely he had been kind?—his little sheep. To be hit by one's sheep! To be hit violently by it so that the blows actually shook one at the very moment of greatest affection for it, of rejoicing over its return, of plunging40 one's hands most confidently into the comfort of its wool!
Herr Dremmel was amazed.
He stayed in his laboratory in this condition till supper; then, during the meal, he carefully read a book which he propped41 up in front of him against the loaf, while Ingeborg, ministering to him with the eager deftness42 of the conscience-stricken, watched for a sign of forgiveness out of the corners of red eyes.
He stayed after supper in his laboratory till past midnight, still being amazed, reduced indeed at last to walking up and down that calm temple of untiring attempts to nail down ultimate causes, considering how best he could bring his wife to reason.
The business of bringing a woman to reason had always seemed to him quite the most extravagant44 way of wasting good time. To have to discuss, argue, explain, threaten, adjure45, only in order to get back to the point from which nobody ought ever to have started, was the silliest of all silly necessities. Again he fumed46 at the thought of an untractable, undutiful wife about him, and recognised the acute need to be clear of feminine childishness, egotism, unforeseeable resiliences, if a man would work. In his stirred stale it appeared altogether monstrous47 that the whole world should be blotted48 out, the great wide world of magnificent opportunity and spacious49 interest, even for a day, even for an hour, by the power to make him uncomfortable, by the power to make him concentrate his brains on an irrelevant50 situation, of one small woman.
He went to their room about half-past twelve determined51 to have no more of the nonsense. He would bring her then and there, by the shortest possible route, to reason. He would have it out even to the extent of severity and have done with it. He was master, and if she forced him to emphasize the fact he would.
Carrying the lamp he went to their room with the firm footsteps of one who has ceased to be going to stand things.
But the room was empty. It was as chillily empty of wifely traces as it had been since the beginning of June.
"This is paltry," thought Herr Dremmel, feeling the offence was now so great as to have become ridiculous; and determined to discover into what fastness she had withdrawn52 and fetch her out of it, he went lamp in hand doggedly53 through the house looking for her, beginning with the thorough patience of one accustomed to research in the kitchen, where shy cockroaches54 peeped at him round the legs of tables, examining the parlour, stuffy55 with the exhaustion56 of an ended day, penetrating57 into a room in which Rosa and the cook reared themselves up in their beds to regard him with horror unspeakable, and at last stumbling up the narrow staircase to where Robertlet and Ditti slept the sleep of the unvaryingly just.
Here, in a third small bed of the truckle type, lay his defaulting wife, her face to the wall, her body composed into an excess of motionlessness.
"Ingeborg!" he called, holding the lamp high over his head.
But she did not stir.
"Ingeborg!" he called again.
But never did woman sleep so soundly.
He walked across to the bed and bent58 over, searching her face by the light of the lamp. Most of it was buried in the pillow, but the one eye visible was tightly shut, more immensely asleep than any eye he had ever seen.
The indifference59 that could sleep while her outraged60 husband was looking for her revolted him. Without making any further attempt to wake her he turned on his heel, and slamming the door behind him went downstairs again.
"That is thieves at last," remarked Ditti, who had been expecting them for years, brought out of her dreams—good dreams—by the noise of the door.
"Yes," said Robertlet, also roused from dreams that did him credit.
"We must now get under the clothes," said Ditti, who had settled long ago what would be the right thing to do.
"Yes," said Robertlet.
"You needn't," said Ingeborg out of the darkness—they both started, they had forgotten she was there—"it was only Papa."
Put the thought of Papa coming up to their room and banging the door in the middle of the night filled them in its strangeness with an even greater uneasiness; they would have preferred thieves; and after some preliminary lying quiet and being good they one after the other withdrew as silently as possible beneath the comfort of the clothes, where they waited in neat patience for the next thing Papa might do until, stifled62 but uncomplaining, they once more fell asleep.
There followed some days of strain in the Kökensee parsonage.
Herr Dremmel retired63 into an extremity64 of silence, made no allusion65 to these regrettable incidents, became at meals a mere66 figure behind a newspaper, and at other times was not there at all.
He had decided67 that he would not waste his energies in anger. At the earliest opportunity he would drive in to Meuk, call on the doctor, and after explaining the effect of Zoppot, a place which was to have cured her, on his wife, request him now to prescribe a cure for the cure. It was Ingeborg's business to come to her husband and ask for forgiveness, and he would give her these few days in which to do it. If she did not he would know, after consultation68 with the doctor, what course to take—whether of severity, or whether, setting aside his manhood, it was not rather an occasion on which one ought to coax69. He was, after all, too humane70 to resort without medical sanction to scenes. Perhaps what she needed was only a corrective to Zoppot. There was such a thing as excess of salubriousness.
Having made up his mind, he found himself calmer, able to work again in the knowledge that in a few days he would be clear, with the aid of the doctor, as to what should be done; and Ingeborg had nothing to complain of except that he would not speak. Several times she tried to reopen the so hastily closed subject, but got no further in the face of his monumental silence than "But, Robert—"
She took the children for outings in the forest, and while they did not chatter71 merrily together and did not play at games she thought over all the ways that were really tactful of luring72 him to reasonable discussion. She knew she had made a lamentable73 first appearance in the rôle of a retiring mother, but how difficult it was when you felt overwhelmingly to talk objectively. And then there were tears. A woman cried, and what a handicap that was. Before the first semicolon in any vital discourse74 with one's husband was reached one was dissolved in tears, thought Ingeborg, ashamed and resentful; and Robert grew so calm and patient, so disconcertingly calm and patient when faced by crying; he sat there like some large god, untouched by human distress, waiting for the return of reason. It is true he cried, too, sometimes, but only about odd things like Christmas Eves and sons if they were sufficiently75 new born—things that came under the category surely of cheerful, at most of cheerfully touching76; but he never cried about these great important issues, these questions on which all one's happiness hung. Life would run more easily, she thought, if husbands and wives had the same taste in tears.
Four days after her return home she asked him to forgive her.
It was at the end of supper, and he had just removed his book from the supporting loaf and was getting up to go when she ran across to him with the quickness of despair and laid hold of him by both his sleeves and said, "Forgive me."
He looked down at her with a gleam in his eye; he would not have to go to Meuk after all.
"Do," she begged. "Robert! Do! You know I love you. I'm so miserable to have hurt you. Do let's be friends. Won't we?"
"Friends?" echoed Herr Dremmel, drawing back. "Is that all you have to say to me?"
"Oh, do be friends! I can't bear this."
"Ingeborg," he said with the severity of disappointment, pulling his sleeves out of her hands and going to the door, "have you then not yet discovered that a true husband and wife can never be friends?"
"Oh, but how dreadful!" said Ingeborg, dropping her hands by her side and staring after him as he went out.
Toward the end of the week, when her unassisted meditations78 continued to produce no suggestions of any use for removing the stain that undoubtedly79 rested on her, she thought she would go in to Meuk and seek the counsel of the doctor. He had always been good to her, kind and understanding. She would go to him more in the spirit of one who goes to a priest than to a doctor, and inquire of him earnestly what she should do to be saved.
She found the position at home unendurable. If the doctor told her that it was her duty to go on having children, and that it was mere chance the two last had been born dead, she would resume her career. It was a miserable career—a terrible, maimed thing—but less miserable than doubt as to whether one were not being wicked and Robert was being utterly80 right. Not for nothing was she the daughter of a bishop81, and had enjoyed for twenty-two years the privileges of a Christian82 home. Also she well knew that the public opinion of Kökensee and Glambeck would be against her in this matter of rebellion, and she felt too weak to stand up alone against these big things. She had never been able to hold out long against prolonged disapproval83; nor had she ever been able to endure that people round her should not be happy. By the end of the week she was so wretched and so full of doubts that she decided to put her trust in Meuk and abide84 by the decision of its doctor; and so it happened that she set out on the five-mile walk to it on the same day on which Herr Dremmel drove there.
He had driven off in the middle of the morning with sandwiches for himself and the coachman in the direction of the experiment ground, telling her he would not be in till the evening, so she seized the favourable85 opportunity and, also armed with sandwiches, started soon after twelve o'clock for Meuk. The doctor's consulting hour was, she knew, from two to three, and if she were there punctually at two she could talk to him, have her fate decided, and be home again by four.
She walked along the edge of the harvested rye-fields eating her sandwiches as she went, and refusing to think for this brief hour and a half of the difficulties of life. Her mind was weary of them. She would put them away from her for this one walk. It was the brightest of August middays. The world seemed filled with every element of happiness. Some people, probably friends of the Glambecks, were shooting partridges over the stubble. The lupin fields were in their full glory, and their peculiar3 orange scent16 met her all along the way. There was a mile of sandy track to be waded86 through, and then came four good miles of hard white highroad between reddening mountain ashes to Meuk. Walking in that clear fresh warmth, so bright with colour, so sweet with scents87, she could not but begin gradually to glow, and by the time she arrived at the doctor's house, however wan88 her spirits might be, the rest of her was so rosy89 that the servant who opened the door tried to head her off from the waiting-room to the other end of the passage, persuaded that what she had come for could not be the doctor, but an animated90 call on the doctor's wife. She entered the waiting-room, a dingy91 place, with much the effect of a shaft92 of light piercing through a fog; and there, sitting at the table, turning over the fingered and aged61 piles of illustrated93 weeklies, she found Herr Dremmel. For a moment they stared at each other.
There was no one else there. Through folding-doors could be heard the murmur94 of a patient consulting in the next room. Meuk was not usually a sick place, and nine times out of ten the doctor read his newspaper undisturbed from two to three; this was the tenth time, and though it had only just struck two a patient was with him already.
Herr Dremmel and Ingeborg stared at each other for a moment without speaking. Then he said, suddenly angered by the realisation that she had come in to Meuk without asking him if she might, "You did not tell me you were coming here."
"No," said Ingeborg.
"Why have you come?"
She sat down as inconspicuously as she could on the edge of a chair in a corner and clung to her umbrella. It was the awkwardest thing meeting Robert there.
"I—I just thought I would," she murmured.
"You do not look ill. You were not ill this morning."
"It's—psychological," murmured Ingeborg unnerved, and laying hold of the first word that darted95 into her undisciplined brain.
"Psycho—?"
"Are you ill, Robert?" she asked, suddenly anxious. "Why have you come?"
"My dear wife, that is my affair," said Herr Dremmel, who was particularly annoyed and puzzled by her presence.
"Oh," murmured Ingeborg. She had never yet heard herself called his dear wife, and felt the immensity of her relegation96 to her proper place.
He fluttered the pages of the Fliegende Blätter; she held on tighter to what seemed to be her only friend, her umbrella.
"Did you walk?" he asked presently, letting off the question at her like a gun.
What had she come for? thought Herr Dremmel, fluttering the pages faster. Ridiculous to pretend she needed a doctor. She looked, sitting there with her unusual pink cheeks, like a flourishing sixteen—at most eighteen.
What had he come for? thought Ingeborg, wishing life would not deal so upsettingly in coincidences, and keeping her eyes carefully on the carpet. Then a swift fear jumped at her heart—suppose he were ill? Suppose he had begun to have one of those large, determined, obscure diseases that seem to mow98 down men and make the world so much a place of widows? She had observed that for one widower99 in Kökensee and the surrounding district there were ten widows. The women appeared to ail43 through life, constantly being smitten100 down by one thing after the other, but at least they stayed alive; while the men, who went year by year out robustly101 to work, died after a single smiting102. "Perhaps it's want of practice in being smitten," she thought; and looked anxiously under her eyelashes at Robert, struggling with a desire to go over and implore103 him to tell her what was the matter. In another moment she would have gone, driven across by her impulses, if the folding-doors had not been thrown open and the doctor appeared bowing.
"Darf ich bitten?" said the doctor to Herr Dremmel, not perceiving Ingeborg, who was shuttered out of sight by the one half of the door he had opened. "Ah—it is the Herr Pastor104," he added less officially on recognising him, and advanced holding out his hand. "I hope, my friend, there is nothing wrong with you?"
Herr Dremmel did not answer, but seizing his hat made a movement of a forestalling105 character towards the consulting room; and the doctor turning to follow him beheld106 Ingeborg in her corner behind the door.
"Ah—the Frau Pastor," he said, bowing again and again advancing with an extended hand. "Which," he added, looking from one to the other, "is the patient?"
But Herr Dremmel's back, disappearing with determination into the next room, suggested an acute need of assistance not visible in his wife's retiring attitude.
"You'll tell me the truth about him, won't you?" she whispered, anxiously. "You won't hide things from me?"
The doctor looked grave. "Is it so serious?" he asked; and hurried after Herr Dremmel and shut the door.
Ingeborg sat and waited for what seemed a long time. She heard much murmuring, and often both voices murmured together, which puzzled her. Sometimes, indeed, they ceased to be murmurs107 and rose to a point at which they became distinct—"You forget I am a Christian pastor," she heard Robert say—but they dropped again, though never into a pause, never into those moments of silence during which Robert might be guessed to be putting out his tongue or having suspect portions of his person prodded108. She sat there worried and anxious, all her own affairs forgotten in this fear of something amiss with him; and when at last the door opened again and both men came out she got up eagerly and said, "Well?"
Herr Dremmel was looking very solemn; more entirely109 solemn than she had ever seen him; almost as though he had already attained110 to that crown of a man's career, that final touch of all, that last gift to the world, a widow and orphans111. The doctor's face was a careful blank.
"Well?" said Ingeborg again, greatly alarmed.
"Does the Frau Pastor also wish to consult me?" asked the doctor.
"Yes. I did. But it doesn't really matter now. Robert—"
Herr Dremmel was putting on his hat very firmly and going towards the outer door without saying good-bye to the doctor. "I will wait for you outside and drive you home, Ingeborg," he said, not looking round.
She stared after him. "Is he very ill?" she asked, turning to the doctor.
"No."
"No?"
"No," said the doctor, with a stress on it.
"But—"
"And you look very well, too. Pray, keep so. It is not necessary, judging from your appearance, to consult me further. I will conduct you to your carriage."
"But—" said Ingeborg, who found herself being offered an arm and led ceremoniously after Robert.
"Take your tonic112, be much in the sun, and alter nothing in your present mode of life," said the doctor.
"But Robert—"
"The Herr Pastor enjoys excellent health, and will throw himself with more zeal113 than ever into his work."
"Then why—"
"And the Frau Pastor will do her duty."
"Yes."
She stopped and faced him. "Yes," she said, "I'm going to, but—what is my duty?"
"My dear Frau Pastor, there is only one left. You have discharged all the others. Your one duty now is to keep well in body and mind, provide your two children with a capable mother, and your husband with a companion possessed114 of the intelligent amiability115 that springs from good health."
"But Robert—?"
"He has been consulting me about you. I will not allow you to turn him, who deserves so well of fate, into that unhappy object, a widower."
"Oh? So really—?"
He opened the front door. "Yes," he said, "really."
And he handed her up into the seat next to Herr Dremmel and waved them off on their homeward journey with friendly gestures.
And Ingeborg, now aware that the real cause of Robert's preternatural gloom was the dread77 of losing her, not the dread of leaving her, was deeply touched and full of a desire to express her appreciation116. She slid her hand through his arm and spent the time between Meuk and Kökensee earnestly endeavouring to reassure117 him. He was not, after all, she eagerly explained, going to be a widower.
He bore her comforting in silence.
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1
sprouts
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| n.新芽，嫩枝( sprout的名词复数 )v.发芽( sprout的第三人称单数 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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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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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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acquiescent
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| adj.默许的，默认的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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pliable
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| adj.易受影响的；易弯的；柔顺的，易驾驭的 | |
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illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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upheaval
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| n.胀起，(地壳)的隆起；剧变，动乱 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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obliquity
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| n.倾斜度 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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humiliatingly
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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bonneted
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| 发动机前置的 | |
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dinginess
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| n.暗淡，肮脏 | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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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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42
deftness
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ail
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| v.生病，折磨，苦恼 | |
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44
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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adjure
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| v.郑重敦促(恳请) | |
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fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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50
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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51
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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52
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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54
cockroaches
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| n.蟑螂( cockroach的名词复数 ) | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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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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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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luring
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的现在分词形式） | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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relegation
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| n.驱逐，贬黜；降级 | |
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meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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98
mow
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| v.割（草、麦等），扫射，皱眉；n.草堆，谷物堆 | |
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99
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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100
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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robustly
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| adv.要用体力地，粗鲁地 | |
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102
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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103
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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104
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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105
forestalling
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的现在分词 ) | |
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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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107
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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108
prodded
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| v.刺，戳( prod的过去式和过去分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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109
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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111
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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112
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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113
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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114
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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115
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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116
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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117
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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