At length, S. Behrman halted his buggy and brought out his field glasses from beneath the seat. He stood up in his place and, adjusting the lenses, swept the prospect6 to the south and west. It was the same as though the sea of land were, in reality, the ocean, and he, lost in an open boat, were scanning the waste through his glasses, looking for the smoke of a steamer, hull7 down, below the horizon. “Wonder,” he muttered, “if they're working on Four this morning?”
At length, he murmured an “Ah” of satisfaction. Far to the south into the white sheen of sky, immediately over the horizon, he made out a faint smudge—the harvester beyond doubt.
Thither8 S. Behrman turned his horse's head. It was all of an hour's drive over the uneven9 ground and through the crackling stubble, but at length he reached the harvester. He found, however, that it had been halted. The sack sewers11, together with the header-man, were stretched on the ground in the shade of the machine, while the engineer and separator-man were pottering about a portion of the works.
“What's the matter, Billy?” demanded S. Behrman reining12 up.
The engineer turned about.
“The grain is heavy in here. We thought we'd better increase the speed of the cup-carrier, and pulled up to put in a smaller sprocket.”
S. Behrman nodded to say that was all right, and added a question.
“How is she going?”
“Anywheres from twenty-five to thirty sacks to the acre right along here; nothing the matter with THAT I guess.”
“Nothing in the world, Bill.”
One of the sack sewers interposed:
“For the last half hour we've been throwing off three bags to the minute.”
“That's good, that's good.”
It was more than good; it was “bonanza,” and all that division of the great ranch was thick with just such wonderful wheat. Never had Los Muertos been more generous, never a season more successful. S. Behrman drew a long breath of satisfaction. He knew just how great was his share in the lands which had just been absorbed by the corporation he served, just how many thousands of bushels of this marvellous crop were his property. Through all these years of confusion, bickerings, open hostility13 and, at last, actual warfare14 he had waited, nursing his patience, calm with the firm assurance of ultimate success. The end, at length, had come; he had entered into his reward and saw himself at last installed in the place he had so long, so silently coveted15; saw himself chief of a principality, the Master of the Wheat.
The sprocket adjusted, the engineer called up the gang and the men took their places. The fireman stoked vigorously, the two sack sewers resumed their posts on the sacking platform, putting on the goggles16 that kept the chaff17 from their eyes. The separator-man and header-man gripped their levers.
The harvester, shooting a column of thick smoke straight upward, vibrating to the top of the stack, hissed18, clanked, and lurched forward. Instantly, motion sprang to life in all its component19 parts; the header knives, cutting a thirty-six foot swath, gnashed like teeth; beltings slid and moved like smooth flowing streams; the separator whirred, the agitator20 jarred and crashed; cylinders21, augers, fans, seeders and elevators, drapers and chaff-carriers clattered22, rumbled23, buzzed, and clanged. The steam hissed and rasped; the ground reverberated24 a hollow note, and the thousands upon thousands of wheat stalks sliced and slashed25 in the clashing shears26 of the header, rattled28 like dry rushes in a hurricane, as they fell inward, and were caught up by an endless belt, to disappear into the bowels29 of the vast brute30 that devoured31 them.
It was that and no less. It was the feeding of some prodigious32 monster, insatiable, with iron teeth, gnashing and threshing into the fields of standing33 wheat; devouring34 always, never glutted35, never satiated, swallowing an entire harvest, snarling36 and slobbering in a welter of warm vapour, acrid37 smoke, and blinding, pungent38 clouds of chaff. It moved belly-deep in the standing grain, a hippopotamus39, half-mired in river ooze41, gorging42 rushes, snorting, sweating; a dinosaur43 wallowing through thick, hot grasses, floundering there, crouching44, grovelling45 there as its vast jaws46 crushed and tore, and its enormous gullet swallowed, incessant47, ravenous48, and inordinate49.
S. Behrman, very much amused, changed places with one of the sack sewers, allowing him to hold his horse while he mounted the sacking platform and took his place. The trepidation50 and jostling of the machine shook him till his teeth chattered51 in his head. His ears were shocked and assaulted by a myriad-tongued clamour, clashing steel, straining belts, jarring woodwork, while the impalpable chaff powder from the separators settled like dust in his hair, his ears, eyes, and mouth.
Directly in front of where he sat on the platform was the chute from the cleaner, and from this into the mouth of a half-full sack spouted52 an unending gush53 of grain, winnowed54, cleaned, threshed, ready for the mill.
The pour from the chute of the cleaner had for S. Behrman an immense satisfaction. Without an instant's pause, a thick rivulet55 of wheat rolled and dashed tumultuous into the sack. In half a minute—sometimes in twenty seconds—the sack was full, was passed over to the second sewer10, the mouth reeved up, and the sack dumped out upon the ground, to be picked up by the wagons56 and hauled to the railroad.
S. Behrman, hypnotised, sat watching that river of grain. All that shrieking58, bellowing59 machinery60, all that gigantic organism, all the months of labour, the ploughing, the planting, the prayers for rain, the years of preparation, the heartaches, the anxiety, the foresight61, all the whole business of the ranch, the work of horses, of steam, of men and boys, looked to this spot—the grain chute from the harvester into the sacks. Its volume was the index of failure or success, of riches or poverty. And at this point, the labour of the rancher ended. Here, at the lip of the chute, he parted company with his grain, and from here the wheat streamed forth62 to feed the world. The yawning mouths of the sacks might well stand for the unnumbered mouths of the People, all agape for food; and here, into these sacks, at first so lean, so flaccid, attenuated63 like starved stomachs, rushed the living stream of food, insistent64, interminable, filling the empty, fattening65 the shrivelled, making it sleek66 and heavy and solid.
Half an hour later, the harvester stopped again. The men on the sacking platform had used up all the sacks. But S. Behrman's foreman, a new man on Los Muertos, put in an appearance with the report that the wagon57 bringing a fresh supply was approaching.
“How is the grain elevator at Port Costa getting on, sir?”
“Finished,” replied S. Behrman.
The new master of Los Muertos had decided67 upon accumulating his grain in bulk in a great elevator at the tide-water port, where the grain ships for Liverpool and the East took on their cargoes70. To this end, he had bought and greatly enlarged a building at Port Costa, that was already in use for that purpose, and to this elevator all the crop of Los Muertos was to be carried. The P. and S. W. made S. Behrman a special rate.
“By the way,” said S. Behrman to his superintendent71, “we're in luck. Fallon's buyer was in Bonneville yesterday. He's buying for Fallon and for Holt, too. I happened to run into him, and I've sold a ship load.”
“A ship load!”
“Of Los Muertos wheat. He's acting72 for some Indian Famine Relief Committee—lot of women people up in the city—and wanted a whole cargo69. I made a deal with him. There's about fifty thousand tons of disengaged shipping73 in San Francisco Bay right now, and ships are fighting for charters. I wired McKissick and got a long distance telephone from him this morning. He got me a barque, the 'Swanhilda.' She'll dock day after to-morrow, and begin loading.”
“Hadn't I better take a run up,” observed the superintendent, “and keep an eye on things?”
“No,” answered S. Behrman, “I want you to stop down here, and see that those carpenters hustle74 the work in the ranch house. Derrick will be out by then. You see this deal is peculiar75. I'm not selling to any middle-man—not to Fallon's buyer. He only put me on to the thing. I'm acting direct with these women people, and I've got to have some hand in shipping this stuff myself. But I made my selling figure cover the price of a charter. It's a queer, mixed-up deal, and I don't fancy it much, but there's boodle in it. I'll go to Port Costa myself.”
A little later on in the day, when S. Behrman had satisfied himself that his harvesting was going forward favourably76, he reentered his buggy and driving to the County Road turned southward towards the Los Muertos ranch house. He had not gone far, however, before he became aware of a familiar figure on horse-back, jogging slowly along ahead of him. He recognised Presley; he shook the reins77 over his horse's back and very soon ranging up by the side of the young man passed the time of day with him.
“Well, what brings you down here again, Mr. Presley?” he observed. “I thought we had seen the last of you.”
“I came down to say good-bye to my friends,” answered Presley shortly.
“Going away?”
“Yes—to India.”
“Well, upon my word. For your health, hey?”
“Yes.”
“You LOOK knocked up,” asserted the other. “By the way,” he added, “I suppose you've heard the news?”
Presley shrank a little. Of late the reports of disasters had followed so swiftly upon one another that he had begun to tremble and to quail78 at every unexpected bit of information.
“What news do you mean?” he asked.
“About Dyke79. He has been convicted. The judge sentenced him for life.”
For life! Riding on by the side of this man through the ranches80 by the County Road, Presley repeated these words to himself till the full effect of them burst at last upon him.
Jailed for life! No outlook. No hope for the future. Day after day, year after year, to tread the rounds of the same gloomy monotony. He saw the grey stone walls, the iron doors; the flagging of the “yard” bare of grass or trees—the cell, narrow, bald, cheerless; the prison garb81, the prison fare, and round all the grim granite82 of insuperable barriers, shutting out the world, shutting in the man with outcasts, with the pariah83 dogs of society, thieves, murderers, men below the beasts, lost to all decency84, drugged with opium85, utter reprobates86. To this, Dyke had been brought, Dyke, than whom no man had been more honest, more courageous87, more jovial88. This was the end of him, a prison; this was his final estate, a criminal.
Presley found an excuse for riding on, leaving S. Behrman behind him. He did not stop at Caraher's saloon, for the heat of his rage had long since begun to cool, and dispassionately, he saw things in their true light. For all the tragedy of his wife's death, Caraher was none the less an evil influence among the ranchers, an influence that worked only to the inciting89 of crime. Unwilling90 to venture himself, to risk his own life, the anarchist91 saloon-keeper had goaded92 Dyke and Presley both to murder; a bad man, a plague spot in the world of the ranchers, poisoning the farmers' bodies with alcohol and their minds with discontent.
At last, Presley arrived at the ranch house of Los Muertos. The place was silent; the grass on the lawn was half dead and over a foot high; the beginnings of weeds showed here and there in the driveway. He tied his horse to a ring in the trunk of one of the larger eucalyptus93 trees and entered the house.
Mrs. Derrick met him in the dining-room. The old look of uneasiness, almost of terror, had gone from her wide-open brown eyes. There was in them instead, the expression of one to whom a contingency94, long dreaded95, has arrived and passed. The stolidity96 of a settled grief, of an irreparable calamity97, of a despair from which there was no escape was in her look, her manner, her voice. She was listless, apathetic99, calm with the calmness of a woman who knows she can suffer no further.
“We are going away,” she told Presley, as the two sat down at opposite ends of the dining table. “Just Magnus and myself—all there is left of us. There is very little money left; Magnus can hardly take care of himself, to say nothing of me. I must look after him now. We are going to Marysville.”
“Why there?”
“You see,” she explained, “it happens that my old place is vacant in the Seminary there. I am going back to teach—literature.” She smiled wearily. “It is beginning all over again, isn't it? Only there is nothing to look forward to now. Magnus is an old man already, and I must take care of him.”
“He will go with you, then,” Presley said, “that will be some comfort to you at least.”
“I don't know,” she said slowly, “you have not seen Magnus lately.”
“Is he—how do you mean? Isn't he any better?”
“Would you like to see him? He is in the office. You can go right in.”
Presley rose. He hesitated a moment, then:
“Mrs. Annixter,” he asked, “Hilma—is she still with you? I should like to see her before I go.” “Go in and see Magnus,” said Mrs. Derrick. “I will tell her you are here.”
Presley stepped across the stone-paved hallway with the glass roof, and after knocking three times at the office door pushed it open and entered.
Magnus sat in the chair before the desk and did not look up as Presley entered. He had the appearance of a man nearer eighty than sixty. All the old-time erectness100 was broken and bent101. It was as though the muscles that once had held the back rigid102, the chin high, had softened103 and stretched. A certain fatness, the obesity104 of inertia105, hung heavy around the hips68 and abdomen106, the eye was watery107 and vague, the cheeks and chin unshaven and unkempt, the grey hair had lost its forward curl towards the temples and hung thin and ragged108 around the ears. The hawk-like nose seemed hooked to meet the chin; the lips were slack, the mouth half-opened.
Where once the Governor had been a model of neatness in his dress, the frock coat buttoned, the linen109 clean, he now sat in his shirt sleeves, the waistcoat open and showing the soiled shirt. His hands were stained with ink, and these, the only members of his body that yet appeared to retain their activity, were busy with a great pile of papers,—oblong, legal documents, that littered the table before him. Without a moment's cessation, these hands of the Governor's came and went among the papers, deft110, nimble, dexterous111.
Magnus was sorting papers. From the heap upon his left hand he selected a document, opened it, glanced over it, then tied it carefully, and laid it away upon a second pile on his right hand. When all the papers were in one pile, he reversed the process, taking from his right hand to place upon his left, then back from left to right again, then once more from right to left. He spoke112 no word, he sat absolutely still, even his eyes did not move, only his hands, swift, nervous, agitated113, seemed alive.
“Why, how are you, Governor?” said Presley, coming forward. Magnus turned slowly about and looked at him and at the hand in which he shook his own.
“Ah,” he said at length, “Presley...yes.”
Then his glance fell, and he looked aimlessly about upon the floor. “I've come to say good-bye, Governor,” continued Presley, “I'm going away.”
“Going away...yes, why it's Presley. Good-day, Presley.”
“Good-day, Governor. I'm going away. I've come to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye?” Magnus bent his brows, “what are you saying good-bye for?”
“I'm going away, sir.”
The Governor did not answer. Staring at the ledge114 of the desk, he seemed lost in thought. There was a long silence. Then, at length, Presley said:
“How are you getting on, Governor?”
Magnus looked up slowly.
“Why it's Presley,” he said. “How do you do, Presley.”
“Are you getting on all right, sir?”
“Yes,” said Magnus after a while, “yes, all right. I am going away. I've come to say good-bye. No—” He interrupted himself with a deprecatory smile, “YOU said THAT, didn't you?”
“Well, you are going away, too, your wife tells me.”
“Yes, I'm going away. I can't stay on...” he hesitated a long time, groping for the right word, “I can't stay on—on—what's the name of this place?”
“Los Muertos,” put in Presley.
“No, it isn't. Yes, it is, too, that's right, Los Muertos. I don't know where my memory has gone to of late.”
“Well, I hope you will be better soon, Governor.”
As Presley spoke the words, S. Behrman entered the room, and the Governor sprang up with unexpected agility115 and stood against the wall, drawing one long breath after another, watching the railroad agent with intent eyes.
S. Behrman saluted116 both men affably and sat down near the desk, drawing the links of his heavy watch chain through his fat fingers.
“There wasn't anybody outside when I knocked, but I heard your voice in here, Governor, so I came right in. I wanted to ask you, Governor, if my carpenters can begin work in here day after to-morrow. I want to take down that partition there, and throw this room and the next into one. I guess that will be O. K., won't it? You'll be out of here by then, won't you?”
There was no vagueness about Magnus's speech or manner now. There was that same alertness in his demeanour that one sees in a tamed lion in the presence of its trainer.
“Yes, yes,” he said quickly, “you can send your men here. I will be gone by to-morrow.”
“I don't want to seem to hurry you, Governor.” “No, you will not hurry me. I am ready to go now.”
“Anything I can do for you, Governor?”
“Nothing.”
“Yes, there is, Governor,” insisted S. Behrman. “I think now that all is over we ought to be good friends. I think I can do something for you. We still want an assistant in the local freight manager's office. Now, what do you say to having a try at it? There's a salary of fifty a month goes with it. I guess you must be in need of money now, and there's always the wife to support; what do you say? Will you try the place?”
Presley could only stare at the man in speechless wonder. What was he driving at? What reason was there back of this new move, and why should it be made thus openly and in his hearing? An explanation occurred to him. Was this merely a pleasantry on the part of S. Behrman, a way of enjoying to the full his triumph; was he testing the completeness of his victory, trying to see just how far he could go, how far beneath his feet he could push his old-time enemy?
“What do you say?” he repeated. “Will you try the place?”
“You—you INSIST?” inquired the Governor.
“Oh, I'm not insisting on anything,” cried S. Behrman. “I'm offering you a place, that's all. Will you take it?”
“Yes, yes, I'll take it.”
“You'll come over to our side?”
“Yes, I'll come over.”
“You'll have to turn 'railroad,' understand?”
“I'll turn railroad.”
“Guess there may be times when you'll have to take orders from me.”
“I'll take orders from you.”
“You'll have to be loyal to railroad, you know. No funny business.”
“I'll be loyal to the railroad.”
“You would like the place then?”
“Yes.”
S. Behrman turned from Magnus, who at once resumed his seat and began again to sort his papers.
“Well, Presley,” said the railroad agent: “I guess I won't see you again.”
“I hope not,” answered the other.
“Tut, tut, Presley, you know you can't make me angry.”
He put on his hat of varnished118 straw and wiped his fat forehead with his handkerchief. Of late, he had grown fatter than ever, and the linen vest, stamped with a multitude of interlocked horseshoes, strained tight its imitation pearl buttons across the great protuberant119 stomach.
Presley looked at the man a moment before replying.
But a few weeks ago he could not thus have faced the great enemy of the farmers without a gust2 of blind rage blowing tempestuous120 through all his bones. Now, however, he found to his surprise that his fury had lapsed121 to a profound contempt, in which there was bitterness, but no truculence122. He was tired, tired to death of the whole business.
“Yes,” he answered deliberately123, “I am going away. You have ruined this place for me. I couldn't live here where I should have to see you, or the results of what you have done, whenever I stirred out of doors.”
“Nonsense, Presley,” answered the other, refusing to become angry. “That's foolishness, that kind of talk; though, of course, I understand how you feel. I guess it was you, wasn't it, who threw that bomb into my house?”
“It was.”
“Well, that don't show any common sense, Presley,” returned S. Behrman with perfect aplomb124. “What could you have gained by killing125 me?”
“Not so much probably as you have gained by killing Harran and Annixter. But that's all passed now. You're safe from me.” The strangeness of this talk, the oddity of the situation burst upon him and he laughed aloud. “It don't seem as though you could be brought to book, S. Behrman, by anybody, or by any means, does it? They can't get at you through the courts,—the law can't get you, Dyke's pistol missed fire for just your benefit, and you even escaped Caraher's six inches of plugged gas pipe. Just what are we going to do with you?”
“Best give it up, Pres, my boy,” returned the other. “I guess there ain't anything can touch me. Well, Magnus,” he said, turning once more to the Governor. “Well, I'll think over what you say, and let you know if I can get the place for you in a day or two. You see,” he added, “you're getting pretty old, Magnus Derrick.”
Presley flung himself from the room, unable any longer to witness the depths into which Magnus had fallen. What other scenes of degradation126 were enacted127 in that room, how much further S. Behrman carried the humiliation128, he did not know. He suddenly felt that the air of the office was choking him.
He hurried up to what once had been his own room. On his way he could not but note that much of the house was in disarray129, a great packing-up was in progress; trunks, half-full, stood in the hallways, crates130 and cases in a litter of straw encumbered131 the rooms. The servants came and went with armfuls of books, ornaments132, articles of clothing.
Presley took from his room only a few manuscripts and note-books, and a small valise full of his personal effects; at the doorway133 he paused and, holding the knob of the door in his hand, looked back into the room a very long time.
He descended134 to the lower floor and entered the dining-room. Mrs. Derrick had disappeared. Presley stood for a long moment in front of the fireplace, looking about the room, remembering the scenes that he had witnessed there—the conference when Osterman had first suggested the fight for Railroad Commissioner135 and then later the attack on Lyman Derrick and the sudden revelation of that inconceivable treachery. But as he stood considering these things a door to his right opened and Hilma entered the room.
Presley came forward, holding out his hand, all unable to believe his eyes. It was a woman, grave, dignified136, composed, who advanced to meet him. Hilma was dressed in black, the cut and fashion of the gown severe, almost monastic. All the little feminine and contradictory137 daintinesses were nowhere to be seen. Her statuesque calm evenness of contour yet remained, but it was the calmness of great sorrow, of infinite resignation. Beautiful she still remained, but she was older. The seriousness of one who has gained the knowledge of the world—knowledge of its evil—seemed to envelope her. The calm gravity of a great suffering past, but not forgotten, sat upon her. Not yet twenty-one, she exhibited the demeanour of a woman of forty.
The one-time amplitude138 of her figure, the fulness of hip40 and shoulder, the great deep swell139 from waist to throat were gone. She had grown thinner and, in consequence, seemed unusually, almost unnaturally140 tall. Her neck was slender, the outline of her full lips and round chin was a little sharp; her arms, those wonderful, beautiful arms of hers, were a little shrunken. But her eyes were as wide open as always, rimmed141 as ever by the thin, intensely black line of the lashes142 and her brown, fragrant143 hair was still thick, still, at times, glittered and coruscated144 in the sun. When she spoke, it was with the old-time velvety145 huskiness of voice that Annixter had learned to love so well.
“Oh, it is you,” she said, giving him her hand. “You were good to want to see me before you left. I hear that you are going away.”
She sat down upon the sofa.
“Yes,” Presley answered, drawing a chair near to her, “yes, I felt I could not stay—down here any longer. I am going to take a long ocean voyage. My ship sails in a few days. But you, Mrs. Annixter, what are you going to do? Is there any way I can serve you?”
“No,” she answered, “nothing. Papa is doing well. We are living here now.”
“You are well?”
She made a little helpless gesture with both her hands, smiling very sadly.
“As you see,” she answered.
As he talked, Presley was looking at her intently. Her dignity was a new element in her character and the certain slender effect of her figure, emphasised now by the long folds of the black gown she wore, carried it almost superbly. She conveyed something of the impression of a queen in exile. But she had lost none of her womanliness; rather, the contrary. Adversity had softened her, as well as deepened her. Presley saw that very clearly. Hilma had arrived now at her perfect maturity146; she had known great love and she had known great grief, and the woman that had awakened147 in her with her affection for Annixter had been strengthened and infinitely148 ennobled by his death. What if things had been different? Thus, as he conversed149 with her, Presley found himself wondering. Her sweetness, her beautiful gentleness, and tenderness were almost like palpable presences. It was almost as if a caress150 had been laid softly upon his cheek, as if a gentle hand closed upon his. Here, he knew, was sympathy; here, he knew, was an infinite capacity for love.
Then suddenly all the tired heart of him went out towards her. A longing151 to give the best that was in him to the memory of her, to be strong and noble because of her, to reshape his purposeless, half-wasted life with her nobility and purity and gentleness for his inspiration leaped all at once within him, leaped and stood firm, hardening to a resolve stronger than any he had ever known.
For an instant he told himself that the suddenness of this new emotion must be evidence of its insincerity. He was perfectly152 well aware that his impulses were abrupt153 and of short duration. But he knew that this was not sudden. Without realising it, he had been from the first drawn154 to Hilma, and all through these last terrible days, since the time he had seen her at Los Muertos, just after the battle at the ditch, she had obtruded155 continually upon his thoughts. The sight of her to-day, more beautiful than ever, quiet, strong, reserved, had only brought matters to a culmination156.
“Are you,” he asked her, “are you so unhappy, Hilma, that you can look forward to no more brightness in your life?”
“Unless I could forget—forget my husband,” she answered, “how can I be happy? I would rather be unhappy in remembering him than happy in forgetting him. He was my whole world, literally157 and truly. Nothing seemed to count before I knew him, and nothing can count for me now, after I have lost him.”
“You think now,” he answered, “that in being happy again you would be disloyal to him. But you will find after a while—years from now—that it need not be so. The part of you that belonged to your husband can always keep him sacred, that part of you belongs to him and he to it. But you are young; you have all your life to live yet. Your sorrow need not be a burden to you. If you consider it as you should—as you WILL some day, believe me—it will only be a great help to you. It will make you more noble, a truer woman, more generous.”
“I think I see,” she answered, “and I never thought about it in that light before.”
“I want to help you,” he answered, “as you have helped me. I want to be your friend, and above all things I do not want to see your life wasted. I am going away and it is quite possible I shall never see you again, but you will always be a help to me.”
“I do not understand,” she answered, “but I know you mean to be very, very kind to me. Yes, I hope when you come back—if you ever do—you will still be that. I do not know why you should want to be so kind, unless—yes, of course—you were my husband's dearest friend.”
They talked a little longer, and at length Presley rose.
“I cannot bring myself to see Mrs. Derrick again,” he said. “It would only serve to make her very unhappy. Will you explain that to her? I think she will understand.”
“Yes,” answered Hilma. “Yes, I will.”
There was a pause. There seemed to be nothing more for either of them to say. Presley held out his hand.
“Good-bye,” she said, as she gave him hers.
He carried it to his lips.
“Good-bye,” he answered. “Good-bye and may God bless you.”
He turned away abruptly158 and left the room. But as he was quietly making his way out of the house, hoping to get to his horse unobserved, he came suddenly upon Mrs. Dyke and Sidney on the porch of the house. He had forgotten that since the affair at the ditch, Los Muertos had been a home to the engineer's mother and daughter.
“And you, Mrs. Dyke,” he asked as he took her hand, “in this break-up of everything, where do you go?”
“To the city,” she answered, “to San Francisco. I have a sister there who will look after the little tad.”
“But you, how about yourself, Mrs. Dyke?”
She answered him in a quiet voice, monotonous159, expressionless:
“I am going to die very soon, Mr. Presley. There is no reason why I should live any longer. My son is in prison for life, everything is over for me, and I am tired, worn out.”
“You mustn't talk like that, Mrs. Dyke,” protested Presley, “nonsense; you will live long enough to see the little tad married.” He tried to be cheerful. But he knew his words lacked the ring of conviction. Death already overshadowed the face of the engineer's mother. He felt that she spoke the truth, and as he stood there speaking to her for the last time, his arm about little Sidney's shoulder, he knew that he was seeing the beginnings of the wreck160 of another family and that, like Hilda Hooven, another baby girl was to be started in life, through no fault of hers, fearfully handicapped, weighed down at the threshold of existence with a load of disgrace. Hilda Hooven and Sidney Dyke, what was to be their histories? the one, sister of an outcast; the other, daughter of a convict. And he thought of that other young girl, the little Honora Gerard, the heiress of millions, petted, loved, receiving adulation from all who came near to her, whose only care was to choose from among the multitude of pleasures that the world hastened to present to her consideration.
“Good-bye,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Sidney.”
He kissed the little girl, clasped Mrs. Dyke's hand a moment with his; then, slinging161 his satchel162 about his shoulders by the long strap163 with which it was provided, left the house, and mounting his horse rode away from Los Muertos never to return.
Presley came out upon the County Road. At a little distance to his left he could see the group of buildings where once Broderson had lived. These were being remodelled164, at length, to suit the larger demands of the New Agriculture. A strange man came out by the road gate; no doubt, the new proprietor165. Presley turned away, hurrying northwards along the County Road by the mammoth166 watering-tank and the long wind-break of poplars.
He came to Caraher's place. There was no change here. The saloon had weathered the storm, indispensable to the new as well as to the old regime. The same dusty buggies and buckboards were tied under the shed, and as Presley hurried by he could distinguish Caraher's voice, loud as ever, still proclaiming his creed167 of annihilation.
Bonneville Presley avoided. He had no associations with the town. He turned aside from the road, and crossing the northwest corner of Los Muertos and the line of the railroad, turned back along the Upper Road till he came to the Long Trestle and Annixter's,—Silence, desolation, abandonment.
A vast stillness, profound, unbroken, brooded low over all the place. No living thing stirred. The rusted168 wind-mill on the skeleton-like tower of the artesian well was motionless; the great barn empty; the windows of the ranch house, cook house, and dairy boarded up. Nailed upon a tree near the broken gateway169 was a board, white painted, with stencilled170 letters, bearing the inscription171:
“Warning. ALL PERSONS FOUND TRESPASSING172 ON THESE PREMISES173 WILL BE PROSECUTED174 TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW. By order P. and S. W. R. R.”
As he had planned, Presley reached the hills by the head waters of Broderson's Creek175 late in the afternoon. Toilfully he climbed them, reached the highest crest176, and turning about, looked long and for the last time at all the reach of the valley unrolled beneath him. The land of the ranches opened out forever and forever under the stimulus177 of that measureless range of vision. The whole gigantic sweep of the San Joaquin expanded Titanic178 before the eye of the mind, flagellated with heat, quivering and shimmering179 under the sun's red eye. It was the season after the harvest, and the great earth, the mother, after its period of reproduction, its pains of labour, delivered of the fruit of its loins, slept the sleep of exhaustion180 in the infinite repose181 of the colossus, benignant, eternal, strong, the nourisher of nations, the feeder of an entire world.
And as Presley looked there came to him strong and true the sense and the significance of all the enigma182 of growth. He seemed for one instant to touch the explanation of existence. Men were nothings, mere117 animalculae, mere ephemerides that fluttered and fell and were forgotten between dawn and dusk. Vanamee had said there was no death. But for one second Presley could go one step further. Men were naught183, death was naught, life was naught; FORCE only existed—FORCE that brought men into the world, FORCE that crowded them out of it to make way for the succeeding generation, FORCE that made the wheat grow, FORCE that garnered184 it from the soil to give place to the succeeding crop.
It was the mystery of creation, the stupendous miracle of recreation; the vast rhythm of the seasons, measured, alternative, the sun and the stars keeping time as the eternal symphony of reproduction swung in its tremendous cadences185 like the colossal186 pendulum187 of an almighty188 machine—primordial energy flung out from the hand of the Lord God himself, immortal189, calm, infinitely strong.
But as he stood thus looking down upon the great valley he was aware of the figure of a man, far in the distance, moving steadily190 towards the Mission of San Juan. The man was hardly more than a dot, but there was something unmistakably familiar in his gait; and besides this, Presley could fancy that he was hatless. He touched his pony191 with his spur. The man was Vanamee beyond all doubt, and a little later Presley, descending192 the maze193 of cow-paths and cattle-trails that led down towards the Broderson Creek, overtook his friend.
Instantly Presley was aware of an immense change. Vanamee's face was still that of an ascetic194, still glowed with the rarefied intelligence of a young seer, a half-inspired shepherd-prophet of Hebraic legends; but the shadow of that great sadness which for so long had brooded over him was gone; the grief that once he had fancied deathless was, indeed, dead, or rather swallowed up in a victorious195 joy that radiated like sunlight at dawn from the deep-set eyes, and the hollow, swarthy cheeks. They talked together till nearly sundown, but to Presley's questions as to the reasons for Vanamee's happiness, the other would say nothing. Once only he allowed himself to touch upon the subject.
“Death and grief are little things,” he said. “They are transient. Life must be before death, and joy before grief. Else there are no such things as death or grief. These are only negatives. Life is positive. Death is only the absence of life, just as night is only the absence of day, and if this is so, there is no such thing as death. There is only life, and the suppression of life, that we, foolishly, say is death. 'Suppression,' I say, not extinction196. I do not say that life returns. Life never departs. Life simply IS. For certain seasons, it is hidden in the dark, but is that death, extinction, annihilation? I take it, thank God, that it is not. Does the grain of wheat, hidden for certain seasons in the dark, die? The grain we think is dead RESUMES AGAIN; but how? Not as one grain, but as twenty. So all life. Death is only real for all the detritus197 of the world, for all the sorrow, for all the injustice198, for all the grief. Presley, the good never dies; evil dies, cruelty, oppression, selfishness, greed—these die; but nobility, but love, but sacrifice, but generosity199, but truth, thank God for it, small as they are, difficult as it is to discover them—these live forever, these are eternal. You are all broken, all cast down by what you have seen in this valley, this hopeless struggle, this apparently hopeless despair. Well, the end is not yet. What is it that remains200 after all is over, after the dead are buried and the hearts are broken? Look at it all from the vast height of humanity—'the greatest good to the greatest numbers.' What remains? Men perish, men are corrupted201, hearts are rent asunder202, but what remains untouched, unassailable, undefiled? Try to find that, not only in this, but in every crisis of the world's life, and you will find, if your view be large enough, that it is not evil, but good, that in the end remains.”
There was a long pause. Presley, his mind full of new thoughts, held his peace, and Vanamee added at length:
“I believed Angele dead. I wept over her grave; mourned for her as dead in corruption203. She has come back to me, more beautiful than ever. Do not ask me any further. To put this story, this idyl, into words, would, for me, be a profanation204. This must suffice you. Angele has returned to me, and I am happy. Adios.”
He rose suddenly. The friends clasped each other's hands.
“We shall probably never meet again,” said Vanamee; “but if these are the last words I ever speak to you, listen to them, and remember them, because I know I speak the truth. Evil is short-lived. Never judge of the whole round of life by the mere segment you can see. The whole is, in the end, perfect.”
Abruptly he took himself away. He was gone. Presley, alone, thoughtful, his hands clasped behind him, passed on through the ranches—here teeming205 with ripened206 wheat—his face set from them forever.
Not so Vanamee. For hours he roamed the countryside, now through the deserted207 cluster of buildings that had once been Annixter's home; now through the rustling208 and, as yet, uncut wheat of Quien Sabe! now treading the slopes of the hills far to the north, and again following the winding209 courses of the streams. Thus he spent the night.
At length, the day broke, resplendent, cloudless. The night was passed. There was all the sparkle and effervescence of joy in the crystal sunlight as the dawn expanded roseate, and at length flamed dazzling to the zenith when the sun moved over the edge of the world and looked down upon all the earth like the eye of God the Father.
At the moment, Vanamee stood breast-deep in the wheat in a solitary210 corner of the Quien Sabe rancho. He turned eastward211, facing the celestial212 glory of the day and sent his voiceless call far from him across the golden grain out towards the little valley of flowers.
Swiftly the answer came. It advanced to meet him. The flowers of the Seed ranch were gone, dried and parched213 by the summer's sun, shedding their seed by handfuls to be sown again and blossom yet another time. The Seed ranch was no longer royal with colour. The roses, the lilies, the carnations214, the hyacinths, the poppies, the violets, the mignonette, all these had vanished, the little valley was without colour; where once it had exhaled215 the most delicious perfume, it was now odourless. Under the blinding light of the day it stretched to its hillsides, bare, brown, unlovely. The romance of the place had vanished, but with it had vanished the Vision.
It was no longer a figment of his imagination, a creature of dreams that advanced to meet Vanamee. It was Reality—it was Angele in the flesh, vital, sane216, material, who at last issued forth from the entrance of the little valley. Romance had vanished, but better than romance was here. Not a manifestation217, not a dream, but her very self. The night was gone, but the sun had risen; the flowers had disappeared, but strong, vigorous, noble, the wheat had come.
In the wheat he waited for her. He saw her coming. She was simply dressed. No fanciful wreath of tube-roses was about her head now, no strange garment of red and gold enveloped218 her now. It was no longer an ephemeral illusion of the night, evanescent, mystic, but a simple country girl coming to meet her lover. The vision of the night had been beautiful, but what was it compared to this? Reality was better than Romance. The simple honesty of a loving, trusting heart was better than a legend of flowers, an hallucination of the moonlight. She came nearer. Bathed in sunlight, he saw her face to face, saw her hair hanging in two straight plaits on either side of her face, saw the enchanting219 fulness of her lips, the strange, balancing movement of her head upon her slender neck. But now she was no longer asleep. The wonderful eyes, violet blue, heavy-lidded, with their perplexing, oriental slant220 towards the temples, were wide open and fixed221 upon his.
From out the world of romance, out of the moonlight and the star sheen, out of the faint radiance of the lilies and the still air heavy with perfume, she had at last come to him. The moonlight, the flowers, and the dream were all vanished away. Angele was realised in the Wheat. She stood forth in the sunlight, a fact, and no longer a fancy.
He ran forward to meet her and she held out her arms to him. He caught her to him, and she, turning her face to his, kissed him on the mouth.
“I love you, I love you,” she murmured.
Upon descending from his train at Port Costa, S. Behrman asked to be directed at once to where the bark “Swanhilda” was taking on grain. Though he had bought and greatly enlarged his new elevator at this port, he had never seen it. The work had been carried on through agents, S. Behrman having far too many and more pressing occupations to demand his presence and attention. Now, however, he was to see the concrete evidence of his success for the first time.
He picked his way across the railroad tracks to the line of warehouses222 that bordered the docks, numbered with enormous Roman numerals and full of grain in bags. The sight of these bags of grain put him in mind of the fact that among all the other shippers he was practically alone in his way of handling his wheat. They handled the grain in bags; he, however, preferred it in the bulk. Bags were sometimes four cents apiece, and he had decided to build his elevator and bulk his grain therein, rather than to incur223 this expense. Only a small part of his wheat—that on Number Three division—had been sacked. All the rest, practically two-thirds of the entire harvest of Los Muertos, now found itself warehoused in his enormous elevator at Port Costa.
To a certain degree it had been the desire of observing the working of his system of handling the wheat in bulk that had drawn S. Behrman to Port Costa. But the more powerful motive224 had been curiosity, not to say downright sentiment. So long had he planned for this day of triumph, so eagerly had he looked forward to it, that now, when it had come, he wished to enjoy it to its fullest extent, wished to miss no feature of the disposal of the crop. He had watched it harvested, he had watched it hauled to the railway, and now would watch it as it poured into the hold of the ship, would even watch the ship as she cleared and got under way.
He passed through the warehouses and came out upon the dock that ran parallel with the shore of the bay. A great quantity of shipping was in view, barques for the most part, Cape98 Horners, great, deep sea tramps, whose iron-shod forefeet had parted every ocean the world round from Rangoon to Rio Janeiro, and from Melbourne to Christiania. Some were still in the stream, loaded with wheat to the Plimsoll mark, ready to depart with the next tide. But many others laid their great flanks alongside the docks and at that moment were being filled by derrick and crane with thousands upon thousands of bags of wheat. The scene was brisk; the cranes creaked and swung incessantly225 with a rattle27 of chains; stevedores226 and wharfingers toiled227 and perspired228; boatswains and dock-masters shouted orders, drays rumbled, the water lapped at the piles; a group of sailors, painting the flanks of one of the great ships, raised an occasional chanty; the trade wind sang aeolian in the cordages, filling the air with the nimble taint229 of salt. All around were the noises of ships and the feel and flavor of the sea.
S. Behrman soon discovered his elevator. It was the largest structure discernible, and upon its red roof, in enormous white letters, was his own name. Thither, between piles of grain bags, halted drays, crates and boxes of merchandise, with an occasional pyramid of salmon230 cases, S. Behrman took his way. Cabled to the dock, close under his elevator, lay a great ship with lofty masts and great spars. Her stern was toward him as he approached, and upon it, in raised golden letters, he could read the words “Swanhilda—Liverpool.”
He went aboard by a very steep gangway and found the mate on the quarter deck. S. Behrman introduced himself.
“Well,” he added, “how are you getting on?”
“Very fairly, sir,” returned the mate, who was an Englishman. “We'll have her all snugged231 down tight by this time, day after to-morrow. It's a great saving of time shunting the stuff in her like that, and three men can do the work of seven.”
“I'll have a look 'round, I believe,” returned S. Behrman.
“Right—oh,” answered the mate with a nod.
S. Behrman went forward to the hatch that opened down into the vast hold of the ship. A great iron chute connected this hatch with the elevator, and through it was rushing a veritable cataract232 of wheat.
It came from some gigantic bin233 within the elevator itself, rushing down the confines of the chute to plunge234 into the roomy, gloomy interior of the hold with an incessant, metallic235 roar, persistent236, steady, inevitable237. No men were in sight. The place was deserted. No human agency seemed to be back of the movement of the wheat. Rather, the grain seemed impelled238 with a force of its own, a resistless, huge force, eager, vivid, impatient for the sea.
S. Behrman stood watching, his ears deafened239 with the roar of the hard grains against the metallic lining240 of the chute. He put his hand once into the rushing tide, and the contact rasped the flesh of his fingers and like an undertow drew his hand after it in its impetuous dash.
Cautiously he peered down into the hold. A musty odour rose to his nostrils241, the vigorous, pungent aroma242 of the raw cereal. It was dark. He could see nothing; but all about and over the opening of the hatch the air was full of a fine, impalpable dust that blinded the eyes and choked the throat and nostrils.
As his eyes became used to the shadows of the cavern243 below him, he began to distinguish the grey mass of the wheat, a great expanse, almost liquid in its texture244, which, as the cataract from above plunged245 into it, moved and shifted in long, slow eddies246. As he stood there, this cataract on a sudden increased in volume. He turned about, casting his eyes upward toward the elevator to discover the cause. His foot caught in a coil of rope, and he fell headforemost into the hold.
The fall was a long one and he struck the surface of the wheat with the sodden247 impact of a bundle of damp clothes. For the moment he was stunned248. All the breath was driven from his body. He could neither move nor cry out. But, by degrees, his wits steadied themselves and his breath returned to him. He looked about and above him. The daylight in the hold was dimmed and clouded by the thick, chaff-dust thrown off by the pour of grain, and even this dimness dwindled249 to twilight250 at a short distance from the opening of the hatch, while the remotest quarters were lost in impenetrable blackness. He got upon his feet only to find that he sunk ankle deep in the loose packed mass underfoot.
“Hell,” he muttered, “here's a fix.”
Directly underneath251 the chute, the wheat, as it poured in, raised itself in a conical mound252, but from the sides of this mound it shunted away incessantly in thick layers, flowing in all directions with the nimbleness of water. Even as S. Behrman spoke, a wave of grain poured around his legs and rose rapidly to the level of his knees. He stepped quickly back. To stay near the chute would soon bury him to the waist.
No doubt, there was some other exit from the hold, some companion ladder that led up to the deck. He scuffled and waded253 across the wheat, groping in the dark with outstretched hands. With every inhalation he choked, filling his mouth and nostrils more with dust than with air. At times he could not breathe at all, but gagged and gasped254, his lips distended255. But search as he would he could find no outlet256 to the hold, no stairway, no companion ladder. Again and again, staggering along in the black darkness, he bruised257 his knuckles258 and forehead against the iron sides of the ship. He gave up the attempt to find any interior means of escape and returned laboriously259 to the space under the open hatchway. Already he could see that the level of the wheat was raised.
“God,” he said, “this isn't going to do at all.” He uttered a great shout. “Hello, on deck there, somebody. For God's sake.”
The steady, metallic roar of the pouring wheat drowned out his voice. He could scarcely hear it himself above the rush of the cataract. Besides this, he found it impossible to stay under the hatch. The flying grains of wheat, spattering as they fell, stung his face like wind-driven particles of ice. It was a veritable torture; his hands smarted with it. Once he was all but blinded. Furthermore, the succeeding waves of wheat, rolling from the mound under the chute, beat him back, swirling261 and dashing against his legs and knees, mounting swiftly higher, carrying him off his feet.
Once more he retreated, drawing back from beneath the hatch. He stood still for a moment and shouted again. It was in vain. His voice returned upon him, unable to penetrate262 the thunder of the chute, and horrified263, he discovered that so soon as he stood motionless upon the wheat, he sank into it. Before he knew it, he was knee-deep again, and a long swirl260 of grain sweeping264 outward from the ever-breaking, ever-reforming pyramid below the chute, poured around his thighs265, immobolising him.
A frenzy266 of terror suddenly leaped to life within him. The horror of death, the Fear of The Trap, shook him like a dry reed. Shouting, he tore himself free of the wheat and once more scrambled267 and struggled towards the hatchway. He stumbled as he reached it and fell directly beneath the pour. Like a storm of small shot, mercilessly, pitilessly, the unnumbered multitude of hurtling grains flagellated and beat and tore his flesh. Blood streamed from his forehead and, thickening with the powder-like chaff-dust, blinded his eyes. He struggled to his feet once more. An avalanche268 from the cone269 of wheat buried him to his thighs. He was forced back and back and back, beating the air, falling, rising, howling for aid. He could no longer see; his eyes, crammed270 with dust, smarted as if transfixed with needles whenever he opened them. His mouth was full of the dust, his lips were dry with it; thirst tortured him, while his outcries choked and gagged in his rasped throat.
And all the while without stop, incessantly, inexorably, the wheat, as if moving with a force all its own, shot downward in a prolonged roar, persistent, steady, inevitable.
He retreated to a far corner of the hold and sat down with his back against the iron hull of the ship and tried to collect his thoughts, to calm himself. Surely there must be some way of escape; surely he was not to die like this, die in this dreadful substance that was neither solid nor fluid. What was he to do? How make himself heard?
But even as he thought about this, the cone under the chute broke again and sent a great layer of grain rippling271 and tumbling toward him. It reached him where he sat and buried his hand and one foot.
He sprang up trembling and made for another corner.
“By God,” he cried, “by God, I must think of something pretty quick!”
Once more the level of the wheat rose and the grains began piling deeper about him. Once more he retreated. Once more he crawled staggering to the foot of the cataract, screaming till his ears sang and his eyeballs strained in their sockets272, and once more the relentless273 tide drove him back.
Then began that terrible dance of death; the man dodging274, doubling, squirming, hunted from one corner to another, the wheat slowly, inexorably flowing, rising, spreading to every angle, to every nook and cranny. It reached his middle. Furious and with bleeding hands and broken nails, he dug his way out to fall backward, all but exhausted275, gasping276 for breath in the dust-thickened air. Roused again by the slow advance of the tide, he leaped up and stumbled away, blinded with the agony in his eyes, only to crash against the metal hull of the vessel277. He turned about, the blood streaming from his face, and paused to collect his senses, and with a rush, another wave swirled278 about his ankles and knees. Exhaustion grew upon him. To stand still meant to sink; to lie or sit meant to be buried the quicker; and all this in the dark, all this in an air that could scarcely be breathed, all this while he fought an enemy that could not be gripped, toiling279 in a sea that could not be stayed.
Guided by the sound of the falling wheat, S. Behrman crawled on hands and knees toward the hatchway. Once more he raised his voice in a shout for help. His bleeding throat and raw, parched lips refused to utter but a wheezing280 moan. Once more he tried to look toward the one patch of faint light above him. His eye-lids, clogged281 with chaff, could no longer open. The Wheat poured about his waist as he raised himself upon his knees.
Reason fled. Deafened with the roar of the grain, blinded and made dumb with its chaff, he threw himself forward with clutching fingers, rolling upon his back, and lay there, moving feebly, the head rolling from side to side. The Wheat, leaping continuously from the chute, poured around him. It filled the pockets of the coat, it crept up the sleeves and trouser legs, it covered the great, protuberant stomach, it ran at last in rivulets282 into the distended, gasping mouth. It covered the face. Upon the surface of the Wheat, under the chute, nothing moved but the Wheat itself. There was no sign of life. Then, for an instant, the surface stirred. A hand, fat, with short fingers and swollen283 veins284, reached up, clutching, then fell limp and prone285. In another instant it was covered. In the hold of the “Swanhilda” there was no movement but the widening ripples286 that spread flowing from the ever-breaking, ever-reforming cone; no sound, but the rushing of the Wheat that continued to plunge incessantly from the iron chute in a prolonged roar, persistent, steady, inevitable.
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1
ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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3
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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8
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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sewers
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| n.阴沟，污水管，下水道( sewer的名词复数 ) | |
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reining
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的现在分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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goggles
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| n.护目镜 | |
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chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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agitator
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| n.鼓动者；搅拌器 | |
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cylinders
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| n.圆筒( cylinder的名词复数 )；圆柱；汽缸；（尤指用作容器的）圆筒状物 | |
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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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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34
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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35
glutted
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| v.吃得过多( glut的过去式和过去分词 )；（对胃口、欲望等）纵情满足；使厌腻；塞满 | |
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36
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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37
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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38
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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39
hippopotamus
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| n.河马 | |
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40
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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41
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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42
gorging
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的现在分词 )；作呕 | |
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43
dinosaur
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| n.恐龙 | |
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44
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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45
grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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46
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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47
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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48
ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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49
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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50
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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51
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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52
spouted
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| adj.装有嘴的v.（指液体）喷出( spout的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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53
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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54
winnowed
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| adj.扬净的，风选的v.扬( winnow的过去式和过去分词 )；辨别；选择；除去 | |
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55
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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56
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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57
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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58
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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59
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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60
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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61
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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62
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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63
attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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64
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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65
fattening
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| adj.（食物）要使人发胖的v.喂肥( fatten的现在分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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66
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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67
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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68
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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69
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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70
cargoes
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| n.（船或飞机装载的）货物( cargo的名词复数 )；大量，重负 | |
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71
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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72
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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73
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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74
hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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75
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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76
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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77
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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78
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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79
dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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80
ranches
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| 大农场， （兼种果树，养鸡等的）大牧场( ranch的名词复数 ) | |
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81
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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82
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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83
pariah
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| n.被社会抛弃者 | |
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84
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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85
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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86
reprobates
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| n.道德败坏的人，恶棍( reprobate的名词复数 ) | |
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87
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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88
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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89
inciting
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| 刺激的，煽动的 | |
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90
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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91
anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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92
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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93
eucalyptus
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| n.桉树，桉属植物 | |
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94
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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95
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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96
stolidity
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| n.迟钝，感觉麻木 | |
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97
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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98
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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99
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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100
erectness
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| n.直立 | |
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101
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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102
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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103
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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104
obesity
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| n.肥胖，肥大 | |
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105
inertia
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| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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106
abdomen
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| n.腹，下腹(胸部到腿部的部分) | |
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107
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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108
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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109
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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110
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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111
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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112
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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113
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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114
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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115
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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116
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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117
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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118
varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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119
protuberant
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| adj.突出的，隆起的 | |
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120
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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121
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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122
truculence
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| n.凶猛，粗暴 | |
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123
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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124
aplomb
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| n.沉着，镇静 | |
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125
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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126
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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127
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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129
disarray
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| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
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130
crates
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| n. 板条箱, 篓子, 旧汽车 vt. 装进纸条箱 | |
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131
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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133
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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134
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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135
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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136
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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137
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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138
amplitude
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| n.广大；充足；振幅 | |
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139
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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140
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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141
rimmed
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| adj.有边缘的，有框的v.沿…边缘滚动；给…镶边 | |
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142
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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143
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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144
coruscated
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| v.闪光，闪烁( coruscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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146
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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147
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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148
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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149
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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150
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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151
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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152
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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153
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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154
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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155
obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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157
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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158
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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159
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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160
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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161
slinging
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| 抛( sling的现在分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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162
satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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163
strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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164
remodelled
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| v.改变…的结构[形状]( remodel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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166
mammoth
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| n.长毛象；adj.长毛象似的，巨大的 | |
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167
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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168
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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169
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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170
stencilled
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| v.用模板印（文字或图案）( stencil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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172
trespassing
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| [法]非法入侵 | |
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173
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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174
prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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175
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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176
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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177
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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178
titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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179
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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180
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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181
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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182
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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183
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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184
garnered
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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186
colossal
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|
| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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187
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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188
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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189
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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190
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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191
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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192
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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193
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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194
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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195
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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196
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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197
detritus
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| n.碎石 | |
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198
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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199
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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200
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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201
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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202
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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203
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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204
profanation
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| n.亵渎 | |
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205
teeming
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|
| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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206
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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207
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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208
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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209
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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210
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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211
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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212
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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213
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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214
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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215
exhaled
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|
| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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216
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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217
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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218
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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219
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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220
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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221
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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222
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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223
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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224
motive
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|
| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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225
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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226
stevedores
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| n.码头装卸工人，搬运工( stevedore的名词复数 ) | |
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227
toiled
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|
| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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228
perspired
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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229
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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230
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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231
snugged
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|
| v.整洁的( snug的过去式和过去分词 )；温暖而舒适的；非常舒适的；紧身的 | |
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232
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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233
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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234
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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235
metallic
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|
| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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236
persistent
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|
| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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237
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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238
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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239
deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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240
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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241
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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242
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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243
cavern
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|
| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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244
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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245
plunged
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|
| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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246
eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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247
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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248
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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249
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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250
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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251
underneath
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|
| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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252
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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253
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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254
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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255
distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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256
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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257
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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258
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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259
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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260
swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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261
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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262
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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263
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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264
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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265
thighs
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|
| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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266
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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267
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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268
avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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269
cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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270
crammed
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|
| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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271
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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272
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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273
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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274
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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275
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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276
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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277
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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278
swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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279
toiling
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|
| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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280
wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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281
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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282
rivulets
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| n.小河，小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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283
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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284
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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285
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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286
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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