“If I were you,” said the elder man, “I should take three months’ solid rest.”
“A month is enough,” said the younger man. “Ozone will do it; the first brace1 of grouse2 I bag will do it —” He broke off abruptly3, staring at the line of dimly lighted cars, where negro porters stood by the vestibuled sleepers4, directing passengers to staterooms and berths5.
“Dog all right, doctor?” inquired the elder man pleasantly. “All right, doctor,” replied the younger; “I spoke6 to the baggage master.” There was a silence; the elder man chewed an unlighted cigar reflectively, watching his companion with keen narrowing eyes.
The younger physician stood full in the white electric light, lean head lowered, apparently8 preoccupied9 with a study of his own shadow swimming and quivering on the asphalt at his feet.
“So you fear I may break down?” he observed, without raising his head.
“I think you’re tired out,” said the other.
“That’s a more agreeable way of expressing it,” said the young fellow. “I hear”— he hesitated, with a faint trace of irritation10 —“I understand that Forbes Stanly thinks me mentally unsound.”
“He probably suspects what you’re up to,” said the elder man soberly.
“Well, what will he do when I announce my germ theory? Put me in a strait-jacket?”
“He’ll say you’re mad, until you prove it; every physician will agree with him — until your radium test shows us the microbe of insanity11.”
“Doctor,” said the young man abruptly, “I’m going to admit something — to you.”
“All right; go ahead and admit it.”
“Well, I am a bit worried about my own condition.”
“It’s time you were,” observed the other.
The elder man looked up sharply.
“Yes, I’m — in love.”
“Ah!” muttered the elder physician, amused and a trifle disgusted; “so that’s your malady14, is it?”
“A malady — yes; not explainable by our germ theory — not affected by radio-activity. Doctor, I’m speaking lightly enough, but there’s no happiness in it.”
“Never is,” commented the other, striking a match and lighting15 his ragged16 cigar. After a puff17 or two the cigar went out. “All I have to say,” he added, “is, don’t do it just now. Show me a scale of pure radium and I’ll give you leave to marry every spinster in New York. In the mean time go and shoot a few dozen harmless, happy grouse; they can’t shoot back. But let love alone . . . By the way, who is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know her name, I suppose?”
The young fellow shook his head. “I don’t even know where she lives,” he said finally.
After a pause the elder man took him gently by the arm: “Are you subject to this sort of thing? Are you susceptible18?”
“No, not at all.”
“Ever before in love?”
“Yes — once.”
“When?”
“When I was about ten years old. Her name was Rosamund — aged19 eight. I never had the courage to speak to her. She died recently, I believe.”
The reply was so quietly serious, so destitute20 of any suspicion of humor, that the elder man’s smile faded; and again he cast one of his swift, keen glances at his companion.
“Won’t you stay away three months?” he asked patiently.
But the other only shook his head, tracing with the point of his walking stick the outline of his own shadow on the asphalt.
A moment later he glanced at his watch, closed it with a snap, silently shook hands with his equally silent friend, and stepped aboard the sleeping car.
Neither had noticed the name of the sleeping car.
It happened to be the Rosamund.
Loungers and passengers on Wildwood station drew back from the platform’s edge as the towering locomotive shot by them, stunning21 their ears with the clangor of its melancholy22 bell.
Slower, slower glided23 the dusty train, then stopped, jolting24; eddying25 circles of humanity closed around the cars, through which descending26 passengers pushed.
“Wildwood! Wildwood!” cried the trainmen; trunks tumbling out of the forward car descended27 with a bang! — a yelping28, wagging setter dog landed on the platform, hysterically29 grateful to be free; and at the same moment a young fellow in tweed shooting clothes, carrying gripsack and gun case, made his way forward toward the baggage master, who was being jerked all over the platform by the frantic30 dog.
“Much obliged; I’ll take the dog,” he said, slipping a bit of silver into the official’s hand, and receiving the dog’s chain in return.
“Hope you’ll have good sport,” replied the baggage master. “There’s a lot o’ birds in this country, they tell me. You’ve got a good dog there.”
The young man smiled and nodded, released the chain from his dog’s collar, and started off up the dusty village street, followed by an urchin31 carrying his luggage.
The landlord of the Wildwood Inn stood on the veranda32, prepared to receive guests. When a young man, a white setter dog, and a small boy loomed33 up, his speculative34 eyes became suffused35 with benevolence36.
“How-de-so, sir?” he said cordially. “Guess you was with us three year since — stayed to supper. Ain’t that so?”
“It certainly is,” said his guest cheerfully. “I am surprised that you remember me.”
“Be ye?” rejoined the landlord, gratified. “Say! I can tell the name of every man, woman, an? child that has ever set down to eat with us. You was here with a pair o’ red bird dawgs; shot a mess o’ birds before dark, come back pegged37 out, an’ took the ten-thirty to Noo York. Hey? Yaas, an’ you was cussin’ round because you couldn’t stay an’ shoot for a month.”
“I had to work hard in those days,” laughed the young man. “You are right; it was three years ago this month.”
“Time’s a flyer; it’s fitted with triple screws these days,” said the landlord. “Come right in an’ make yourself to home. Ed! O Ed! Take this bag to 13! We’re all full, sir. You ain’t scared at No. 13, be ye? Say! if I ain’t a liar38 you had 13 three years ago! Waal, now! — ain’t that the dumbdest —— But you can have what you want Monday. How long was you calkerlatin’ to stay?”
“A month — if the shooting is good.”
“It’s all right. Orrin Plummet39 come in last night with a mess o pa’tridges. He says the woodcock is droppin’ in to the birches south o’ Sweetbrier Hill.”
The young man nodded, and began to remove his gun from the service-worn case of sole leather.
“Ain’t startin’ right off, be ye?” inquired his host, laughing.
“I can’t begin too quickly,” said the young man, busy locking barrels to stock, while the dog looked on, thumping40 the veranda floor with his plumy tail.
The landlord admired the slim, polished weapon. “That’s the instrooment!” he observed. “That there’s a slick bird dawg, too. Guess I’d better fill my ice box. Your limit’s thirty of each — cock an’ parridge. After that there’s ducks.”
The landlord scratched his ear reflectively. “Lemme see,” he mused13; “wasn’t you a doctor? I heard tell that you made up pieces for the papers about the idjits an’ loonyticks of Rome an’ Roosia an’ furrin climes.”
“I have written a little on European and Asiatic insanity,” replied the doctor good-humoredly.
“Was you over to them parts?”
“For three years.” He whistled the dog in from the road, where several yellow curs were walking round and round him, every hair on end.
The landlord said: “You look a little peaked yourself. Take it easy the fust, is my advice.”
His guest nodded abstractedly, lingering on the veranda, preoccupied with the beauty of the village street, which stretched away westward42 under tall elms. Autumn-tinted43 hills closed the vista44; beyond them spread the blue sky.
“Straight ahead,” said the landlord. “Take the road to the Holler.”
“Do you”— the doctor hesitated —“do you recall a funeral there three years ago?”
“Whose?” asked his host bluntly.
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll ask my woman; she saves them funeral pieces an’ makes a album.”
“Friend o’ yours buried there?”
“No.”
The landlord sauntered toward the barroom, where two fellow taxpayers46 stood shuffling47 their feet impatiently.
“Waal, good luck, Doc,” he said, without intentional48 offense49; “supper’s at six. We’ll try an’ make you comfortable.”
“Thank you,” replied the doctor, stepping out into the road, and motioning the white setter to heel.
“I remember now,” he muttered, as he turned northward50, where the road forked; “the cemetery lies to the westward; there should be a lane at the next turning —”
He hesitated and stopped, then resumed his course, mumbling51 to himself: “I can pass the cemetery later; she would not be there; I don’t think I shall ever see her again . . . I— I wonder whether I am — perfectly52 — well —”
The words were suddenly lost in a sharp indrawn breath; his heart ceased beating, fluttered, then throbbed54 on violently; and he shook from head to foot.
There was a glimmer55 of a summer gown under the trees; a figure passed from shadow to sunshine, and again into the cool dusk of a leafy lane.
The pallor of the young fellow’s face changed; a heavy flush spread from forehead to neck; he strode forward, dazed, deafened56 by the tumult57 of his drumming pulses. The dog, alert, suspicious, led the way, wheeling into the bramble-bordered lane, only to halt, turn back, and fall in behind his master again.
In the lane ahead the light summer gown fluttered under the foliage58, bright in the sunlight, almost lost in the shadows. Then he saw her on the hill’s breezy crest59, poised60 for a moment against the sky.
When at length he reached the hill, he found her seated in the shade of a pine. She looked up serenely61, as though she had expected him, and they faced each other. A moment later his dog left him, sneaking62 away without a sound.
When he strove to speak, his voice had an unknown tone to him. Her upturned face was his only answer. The breeze in the pinetops, which had been stirring lazily and monotonously63, ceased.
Her delicate face was like a blossom lifted in the still air; her upward glance chained him to silence. The first breeze broke the spell: he spoke a word, then speech died on his lips; he stood twisting his shooting cap, confused, not daring to continue.
The girl leaned back, supporting her weight on one arm, fingers almost buried in the deep green moss64.
“It is three years to-day,” he said, in the dull voice of one who dreams; “three years to-day. May I not speak?”
In her lowered head and eyes he read acquiescence65; in her silence, consent.
“Three years ago to-day,” he repeated; “the anniversary has given me courage to speak to you. Surely you will not take offense; we have traveled so far together! — from the end of the world to the end of it, and back again, here — to this place of all places in the world! And now to find you here on this day of all days — here within a step of our first meeting place — three years ago to-day! And all the world we have traveled over since never speaking, yet ever passing on paths parallel — paths which for thousands of miles ran almost within arm?s distance —”
She raised her head slowly, looking out from the shadows of the pines into the sunshine. Her dreamy eyes rested on acres of golden-rod and hillside brambles quivering in the September heat; on fern-choked gullies edged with alder66; on brown and purple grasses; on pine thickets67 where slim silver birches glimmered68.
“Will you speak to me?” he asked. “I have never even heard the sound of your voice.”
She turned and looked at him, touching69 with idle fingers the soft hair curling on her temples Then she bent70 her head once more, the faintest shadow of a smile in her eyes.
“Because,” he said humbly71, “these long years of silent recognition count for something! And then the strangeness of it! — the fate of it — the quiet destiny that ruled our lives — that rules them now — now as I am speaking, weighting every second with its tiny burden of fate.”
She straightened up, lifting her half-buried hand from the moss; and he saw the imprint72 there where the palm and fingers had rested.
“Three years that end to-day — end with the new moon,” he said. “Do you remember?”
“Yes,” she said.
He quivered at the sound of her voice. “You were there, just beyond those oaks,” he said eagerly; “we can see them from here. The road turns there —”
“Turns by the cemetery,” she murmured.
“Yes, yes, by the cemetery! You had been there, I think.”
“Do you remember that?” she asked.
“I have never forgotten — never!” he repeated, striving to hold her eyes to his own; “it was not twilight73; there was a glimmer of day in the west, but the woods were darkening, and the new moon lay in the sky, and the evening was very clear and still.”
Impulsively74 he dropped on one knee beside her to see her face; and as he spoke, curbing75 his emotion and impatience76 with that subtle deference77 which is inbred in men or never acquired, she stole a glance at him; and his worn visage brightened as though touched with sunlight.
“The second time I saw you was in New York,” he said —“only a glimpse of your face in the crowd — but I knew you.”
“I saw you,” she mused.
“Yes, I knew you. . . . Tell me more.”
The thrilling voice set him aflame; faint danger signals tinted her face and neck.
“In December,” he went on unsteadily, “I saw you in Paris — I saw only you amid the thousand faces in the candlelight of Notre Dame80.”
“And I saw you. . . . And then?”
“And then two months of darkness. . . . And at last a light — moonlight — and you on the terrace at Amara.”
He strove to speak coolly. “Day and night have built many a wall between us; was that you who passed me in the starlight, so close that our shoulders touched, in that narrow street in Samarkand? And the dark figure with you —”
“Yes, it was I and my attendant.”
“And . . . you, there in the fog —”
“At Archangel? Yes, it was I.”
“On the Goryn?”
“It was I. . . . And I am here at last — with you. It is our destiny.”
So, kneeling there beside her in the shadow of the pines, she absolved82 him in their dim confessional, holding him guiltless under the destiny that awaits us all.
Again that illumination touched his haggard face as though brightened by a sun ray stealing through the still foliage above. He grew younger under the level beauty of her gaze; care fell from him like a mask; the shadows that had haunted his eyes faded; youth awoke, transfiguring him and all his eyes beheld83.
Made prisoner by love, adoring her, fearing her, he knelt beside her, knowing already that she had surrendered, though fearful yet by word or gesture or a glance to claim what destiny was holding for him holding securely, inexorably, for him alone.
He spoke of her kindness in understanding him, and of his gratitude84; of her generosity85, of his wonder that she had ever noticed him on his way through the world.
“I cannot believe that we have never before spoken to each other,” he said; “that I do not even know your name. Surely there was once a corner in the land of childhood where we sat together when the world was younger.”
She said, dreamily: “Have you forgotten?”
“Forgotten?”
“That sunny corner in the land of childhood.”
“Had you been there, I should not have forgotten,” he replied, troubled.
“Look at me,” she said. Her lovely eyes met his; under the penetrating86 sweetness of her gaze his heart quickened and grew restless and his uneasy soul stirred, awaking memories.
“There was a child,” she said, “years ago; a child at school. You sometimes looked at her, you never spoke. Do you remember?”
He rose to his feet, staring down at her.
“Do you remember?” she asked again.
The struggle for memory focused all his groping senses; his eyes seemed to look her through and through.
“How can you know?” he repeated unsteadily. “You are not Rosamund . . . Are you? . . . She is dead. I heard that she was dead . . . Are you Rosamund?”
“Do you not know?”
“Yes; you are not Rosamund. . . . What do you know of her?”
“I think she loved you.”
“Is she dead?”
The girl looked up at him, smiling, following with delicate perception the sequence of his thoughts; and already his thoughts were far from the child Rosamund, a sweetheart of a day long since immortal88; already he had forgotten his question, though the question was of life or death.
Sadness and unrest and the passing of souls concerned not him; she knew that all his thoughts were centered on her; that he was already living over once more the last three years, with all their mystery and charm, savoring89 their fragrance90 anew in the exquisite91 enchantment92 of her presence.
Through the autumn silence the pines began to sway in a wind unfelt below. She raised her eyes and saw their green crests93 shimmering94 and swimming in a cool current; a thrilling sound stole out, and with it floated the pine perfume, exhaling95 in the sunshine. He heard the dreamy harmony above, looked up; then, troubled, somber96, moved by he knew not what, he knelt once more in the shadow beside her — close beside her.
He bent nearer. “I love you,” he said. “I loved you from the first. And shall forever. You knew it long ago.”
She did not move.
“You knew I loved you?”
“Yes, I knew it.”
The emotion in her voice, in every delicate contour of her face, pleaded for mercy. He gave her none, and she bent her head in silence, clasped hands tightening98.
And when at last he had had his say, the burning words still rang in her ears through the silence. A curious faintness stole upon her, coming stealthily like a hateful thing. She strove to put it from her, to listen, to remember and understand the words he had spoken, but the dull confusion grew with the sound of the pines.
“Will you love me? Will you try to love me?”
“I love you,” she said; “I have loved you so many, many years; I— I am Rosamund —”
She bowed her head and covered her face with both hands . . . “Rosamund! Rosamund!” he breathed, enraptured99.
She dropped her hands with a little cry; the frightened sweetness of her eyes held back his outstretched arms. “Do not touch me,” she whispered; “you will not touch me, will you? — not yet — not now. Wait till I understand!” She pressed her hands to her eyes, then again let them fall, staring straight at him. “I loved you so!” she whispered. “Why did you wait?”
“Rosamund! Rosamund!” he cried sorrowfully, “what are you saying? I do not understand; I can understand nothing save that I worship you. May I not touch you? — touch your hand, Rosamund? I love you so.”
“And I love you. I beg you not to touch me — not yet. There is something — some reason why —”
“Tell me, sweetheart.”
“Do you not know?”
“By Heaven, I do not!” he said, troubled and amazed.
She cast one desperate, unhappy glance at him, then rose to her full height, gazing out over the hazy100 valleys to where the mountains began, piled up like dim sun-tipped clouds in the north.
The hill wind stirred her hair and fluttered the white ribbons at waist and shoulder. The golden-rod swayed in the sunshine. Below, amid yellow treetops, the roofs and chimneys of the village glimmered.
“Dear, do you not understand?” she said. “How can I make you understand that I love you —— too late?”
“Give yourself to me, Rosamund; let me touch you — let me take you —”
“Will you love me always?”
“In life, in death, which cannot part us. Will you marry me, Rosamund?”
She looked straight into his eyes. “Dear, do you not understand? Have you forgotten? I died three years ago to-day.”
The unearthly sweetness of her white face startled him. A terrible light broke in on him; his heart stood still.
In his dull brain words were sounding — his own words, written years ago: “When God takes the mind and leaves the body alive, there grows in it, sometimes, a beauty almost supernatural.”
He had seen it in his practice. A thrill of fright penetrated101 him, piercing every vein102 with its chill. He strove to speak; his lips seemed frozen; he stood there before her, a ghastly smile stamped on his face, and in his heart, terror.
“What do you mean, Rosamund?” he said at last.
“That I am dead, dear. Did you not understand that? I— I thought you knew it — when you first saw me at the cemetery, after all those years since childhood. . . . Did you not know it?” she asked wistfully. “I must wait for my bridal.”
She whispered, “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he said; “we will wed7 later. You have been ill, dear; but it is all right now — and will always be — God help us! Love is stronger than all —— stronger than death.”
He followed her gaze, calmly, serenely reviewing all that he must renounce108, the happiness of wedlock109, children — all that a man desires.
Suddenly instinct stirred, awaking man’s only friend — hope. A lifetime for the battle! — for a cure! Hopeless? He laughed in his excitement. Despair? — when the cure lay almost within his grasp! the work he had given his life to! A month more in the laboratory — two months — three —— perhaps a year. What of it? It must surely come — how could he fail when the work of his life meant all in life for her?
The light of exaltation slowly faded from his face; ominous110, foreboding thoughts crept in; fear laid a shaky hand on his head which fell heavily forward on his breast.
Science and man’s cunning and the wisdom of the world!
Now that he had learned her name, and that her father was alive, he stood mutely beside her, staring steadily79 at the chimneys and stately dormered roof almost hidden behind the crimson112 maple113 foliage across the valley — her home.
She had seated herself once more upon the moss, hands clasped upon one knee, looking out into the west with dreamy eyes.
“I shall not be long,” he said gently. “Will you wait here for me? I will bring your father with me.”
“I will wait for you. But you must come before the new moon. Will you? I must go when the new moon lies in the west.”
“Go, dearest? Where?”
“I may not tell you,” she sighed, “but you will know very soon — very soon now. And there will be no more sorrow, I think,” she added timidly.
“There will be no more sorrow,” he repeated quietly.
“For the former things are passing away,” she said.
He broke a heavy spray of golden-rod and laid it across her knees; she held out a blossom to him — a blind gentian, blue as her eyes. He kissed it.
“Be with me when the new moon comes,” she whispered. “It will be so sweet. I will teach you how divine is death, if you will come.”
“You shall teach me the sweetness of life,” he said tremulously.
“Yes — life. I did not know you called it by its truest name.”
Where the lane joins the shadowy village street his dog skulked116 up to him, sniffing117 at his heels.
A mill whistle was sounding; through the red rays of the setting sun people were passing.
Along the row of village shops loungers followed him with vacant eyes. He saw nothing, heard nothing, though a kindly118 voice called after him, and a young girl smiled at him on her short journey through the world.
The landlord of the Wildwood Inn sat sunning himself in the red evening glow.
“Well, doctor,” he said, “you look tired to death. Eh? What’s that you say?”
The young man repeated his question in a low voice. The landlord shook his head.
“No, sir. The big house on the hill is empty — been empty these three years. No, sir, there ain’t no family there now. The old gentleman moved away three years ago.”
“You are mistaken,” said the doctor; “his daughter tells me he lives there.”
“His — his daughter?” repeated the landlord. “Why, doctor, she’s dead.” He turned to his wife, who sat sewing by the open window: “Ain’t it three years, Marthy?”
“Three years to-day,” said the woman, biting off her thread. “She’s buried in the family vault119 over the hill. She was a right pretty little thing, too.”
“Turned nineteen,” mused the landlord, folding his newspaper reflectively.
The great gray house on the hill was closed, windows and doors boarded over, lawn, shrubbery, and hedges tangled120 with weeds. A few scarlet121 poppies glimmered above the brown grass. Save for these, and clumps122 of tall wild phlox, there were no blossoms among the weeds.
Swifter and swifter he strode; and as he stumbled on, the long sunset clouds faded, the golden light in the west died out, leaving a calm, clear sky tinged125 with the faintest green.
Pines hid the west as he crept toward the hill where she awaited him. As he climbed through dusky purple grasses, higher, higher, he saw the new moon’s crescent tipping above the hills; and he crushed back the deathly fright that clutched at him and staggered on.
“Rosamund!”
The pines answered him.
“Rosamund!”
The pines replied, answering together. Then the wind died away, and there was no answer when he called.
East and south the darkening thickets, swaying, grew still. He saw the slim silver birches glimmering126 like the ghosts of young trees dead; he saw on the moss at his feet a broken stalk of golden-rod.
While the moon lasted he lay, eyes open, listening, his face pillowed on the moss. It was long after sunrise when his dog came to him; later still when men came.
And at first they thought he was asleep.
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1
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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2
grouse
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| n.松鸡；v.牢骚，诉苦 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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4
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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berths
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| n.（船、列车等的）卧铺( berth的名词复数 )；（船舶的）停泊位或锚位；差事；船台vt.v.停泊( berth的第三人称单数 )；占铺位 | |
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6
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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7
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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8
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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9
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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10
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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11
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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12
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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13
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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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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23
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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24
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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25
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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26
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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27
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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28
yelping
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的现在分词 ) | |
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29
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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30
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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31
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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32
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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33
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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34
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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35
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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37
pegged
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| v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的过去式和过去分词 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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38
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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39
plummet
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| vi.(价格、水平等)骤然下跌；n.铅坠；重压物 | |
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40
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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41
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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42
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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43
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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44
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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45
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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46
taxpayers
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| 纳税人，纳税的机构( taxpayer的名词复数 ) | |
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47
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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48
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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49
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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50
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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51
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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52
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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53
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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54
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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55
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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56
deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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57
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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58
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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59
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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60
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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61
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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62
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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63
monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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64
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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65
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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66
alder
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| n.赤杨树 | |
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67
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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68
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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70
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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71
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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72
imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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73
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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74
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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75
curbing
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| n.边石，边石的材料v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的现在分词 ) | |
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76
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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77
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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78
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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79
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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80
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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81
spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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82
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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83
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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84
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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85
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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86
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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87
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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88
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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89
savoring
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的现在分词 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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90
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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91
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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92
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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93
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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94
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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95
exhaling
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的现在分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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96
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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97
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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98
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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99
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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101
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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102
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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103
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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104
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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105
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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106
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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107
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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108
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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109
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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110
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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111
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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112
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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113
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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114
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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115
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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116
skulked
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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118
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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119
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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120
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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121
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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122
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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123
sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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124
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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125
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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