"Come, Isabel, come, Lucy; we have not had a single walk together yet. It is cold, but clear; and once out of the city, we shall find it sunny. Come: get ready now, and away for a stroll down to the wharf1, and then for some of the steamers on the bay. No doubt, Lucy, you will find in the bay scenery some hints for that secret sketch2 you are so busily occupied with—ere real living sitters do come—and which you so devotedly3 work at, all alone and behind closed doors."
Upon this, Lucy's original look of pale-rippling pleasantness and surprise—evoked by Pierre's unforeseen proposition to give himself some relaxation—changed into one of infinite, mute, but unrenderable meaning, while her swimming eyes gently, yet all-bewildered, fell to the floor.
"It is finished, then," cried Isabel,—not unmindful of this by-scene, and passionately5 stepping forward so as to intercept6 Pierre's momentary7 rapt glance at the agitated8 Lucy,—"That vile9 book, it is finished!—Thank Heaven!"
"Not so," said Pierre; and, displacing all disguisements, a hectic10 unsummoned expression suddenly came to his face;—"but ere that vile book be finished, I must get on some other element than earth. I have sat on earth's saddle till I am weary; I must now vault11 over to the other saddle awhile. Oh, seems to me, there should be two ceaseless steeds for a bold man to ride,—the Land and the Sea; and like circus-men we should never dismount, but only be steadied and rested by leaping from one to the other, while still, side by side, they both race round the sun. I have been on the Land steed so long, oh I am dizzy!"
"Thou wilt12 never listen to me, Pierre," said Lucy lowly; "there is no need of this incessant13 straining. See, Isabel and I have both offered to be thy amanuenses;—not in mere14 copying, but in the original writing; I am sure that would greatly assist thee."
"Ah Pierre! Pierre!" cried Lucy, dropping the shawl in her hand, and gazing at him with unspeakable longings16 of some unfathomable emotion.
"I would go blind for thee, Pierre; here, take out these eyes, and use them for glasses." So saying, she looked with a strange momentary haughtiness18 and defiance19 at Lucy.
A general half involuntary movement was now made, as if they were about to depart.
As they passed through the low arched vestibule into the street, a cheek-burnt, gamesome sailor passing, exclaimed—"Steer small, my lad; 'tis a narrow strait thou art in!"
"What says he?"—said Lucy gently. "Yes, it is a narrow strait of a street indeed."
But Pierre felt a sudden tremble transferred to him from Isabel, who whispered something inarticulate in his ear.
Gaining one of the thoroughfares, they drew near to a conspicuous22 placard over a door, announcing that above stairs was a gallery of paintings, recently imported from Europe, and now on free exhibition preparatory to their sale by auction23. Though this encounter had been entirely24 unforeseen by Pierre, yet yielding to the sudden impulse, he at once proposed their visiting the pictures. The girls assented25, and they ascended26 the stairs.
In the anteroom, a catalogue was put into his hand. He paused to give one hurried, comprehensive glance at it. Among long columns of such names as Rubens, Raphael, Angelo, Domenichino, Da Vinci, all shamelessly prefaced with the words "undoubted," or "testified," Pierre met the following brief line:—"No. 99. A stranger's head, by an unknown hand."
It seemed plain that the whole must be a collection of those wretched imported daubs, which with the incredible effrontery28 peculiar29 to some of the foreign picture-dealers in America, were christened by the loftiest names known to Art. But as the most mutilated torsoes of the perfections of antiquity31 are not unworthy the student's attention, neither are the most bungling32 modern incompletenesses: for both are torsoes; one of perished perfections in the past; the other, by anticipation33, of yet unfulfilled perfections in the future. Still, as Pierre walked along by the thickly hung walls, and seemed to detect the infatuated vanity which must have prompted many of these utterly34 unknown artists in the attempted execution by feeble hand of vigorous themes; he could not repress the most melancholy35 foreboding concerning himself. All the walls of the world seemed thickly hung with the empty and impotent scope of pictures, grandly outlined, but miserably36 filled. The smaller and humbler pictures, representing little familiar things, were by far the best executed; but these, though touching37 him not unpleasingly, in one restricted sense, awoke no dormant38 majesties39 in his soul, and therefore, upon the whole, were contemptibly40 inadequate41 and unsatisfactory.
At last Pierre and Isabel came to that painting of which Pierre was capriciously in search—No. 99.
"My God! see! see!" cried Isabel, under strong excitement, "only my mirror has ever shown me that look before! See! see!"
By some mere hocus-pocus of chance, or subtly designing knavery42, a real Italian gem43 of art had found its way into this most hybrid44 collection of impostures.
No one who has passed through the great galleries of Europe, unbewildered by their wonderful multitudinousness of surpassing excellence45—a redundancy which neutralizes46 all discrimination or individualizing capacity in most ordinary minds—no calm, penetrative person can have victoriously47 run that painted gauntlet of the gods, without certain very special emotions, called forth48 by some one or more individual paintings, to which, however, both the catalogues and the criticisms of the greatest connoisseurs49 deny any all-transcending merit, at all answering to the effect thus casually50 produced. There is no time now to show fully51 how this is; suffice it, that in such instances, it is not the abstract excellence always, but often the accidental congeniality, which occasions this wonderful emotion. Still, the individual himself is apt to impute52 it to a different cause; hence, the headlong enthusiastic admiration53 of some one or two men for things not at all praised by—or at most, which are indifferent to—the rest of the world;—a matter so often considered inexplicable54.
But in this Stranger's Head by the Unknown Hand, the abstract general excellence united with the all-surprising, accidental congeniality in producing an accumulated impression of power upon both Pierre and Isabel. Nor was the strangeness of this at all impaired55 by the apparent uninterestedness of Lucy concerning that very picture. Indeed, Lucy—who, owing to the occasional jolting56 of the crowd, had loosened her arm from Pierre's, and so, gradually, had gone on along the pictured hall in advance—Lucy had thus passed the strange painting, without the least special pause, and had now wandered round to the precisely57 opposite side of the hall; where, at this present time, she was standing58 motionless before a very tolerable copy (the only other good thing in the collection) of that sweetest, most touching, but most awful of all feminine heads—The Cenci of Guido. The wonderfulness of which head consists chiefly, perhaps, in a striking, suggested contrast, half-identical with, and half-analogous to, that almost supernatural one—sometimes visible in the maidens59 of tropical nations—namely, soft and light blue eyes, with an extremely fair complexion60; vailed by funereally61 jetty hair. But with blue eyes and fair complexion, the Cenci's hair is golden—physically, therefore, all is in strict, natural keeping; which, nevertheless, still the more intensifies62 the suggested fanciful anomaly of so sweetly and seraphically blonde a being, being double-hooded, as it were, by the black crape of the two most horrible crimes (of one of which she is the object, and of the other the agent) possible to civilized63 humanity—incest and parricide64.
Now, this Cenci and "the Stranger" were hung at a good elevation65 in one of the upper tiers; and, from the opposite walls, exactly faced each other; so that in secret they seemed pantomimically talking over and across the heads of the living spectators below.
With the aspect of the Cenci every one is familiar. "The Stranger" was a dark, comely66, youthful man's head, portentously67 looking out of a dark, shaded ground, and ambiguously smiling. There was no discoverable drapery; the dark head, with its crisp, curly, jetty hair, seemed just disentangling itself from out of curtains and clouds. But to Isabel, in the eye and on the brow, were certain shadowy traces of her own unmistakable likeness68; while to Pierre, this face was in part as the resurrection of the one he had burnt at the Inn. Not that the separate features were the same; but the pervading69 look of it, the subtler interior keeping of the entirety, was almost identical; still, for all this, there was an unequivocal aspect of foreignness, of Europeanism, about both the face itself and the general painting.
"Is it? Is it? Can it be?" whispered Isabel, intensely.
Now, Isabel knew nothing of the painting which Pierre had destroyed. But she solely70 referred to the living being who—under the designation of her father—had visited her at the cheerful house to which she had been removed during childhood from the large and unnamable one by the pleasant woman in the coach. Without doubt—though indeed she might not have been at all conscious of it in her own mystic mind—she must have somehow vaguely71 fancied, that this being had always through life worn the same aspect to every body else which he had to her, for so very brief an interval72 of his possible existence. Solely knowing him—or dreaming of him, it may have been—under that one aspect, she could not conceive of him under any other. Whether or not these considerations touching Isabel's ideas occurred to Pierre at this moment is very improbable. At any rate, he said nothing to her, either to deceive or undeceive, either to enlighten or obscure. For, indeed, he was too much riveted73 by his own far-interior emotions to analyze74 now the cotemporary ones of Isabel. So that there here came to pass a not unremarkable thing: for though both were intensely excited by one object, yet their two minds and memories were thereby75 directed to entirely different contemplations; while still each, for the time—however unreasonably—might have vaguely supposed the other occupied by one and the same contemplation. Pierre was thinking of the chair-portrait: Isabel, of the living face. Yet Isabel's fervid76 exclamations77 having reference to the living face, were now, as it were, mechanically responded to by Pierre, in syllables78 having reference to the chair-portrait. Nevertheless, so subtile and spontaneous was it all, that neither perhaps ever afterward79 discovered this contradiction; for, events whirled them so rapidly and peremptorily80 after this, that they had no time for those calm retrospective reveries indispensable perhaps to such a discovery.
"Is it? is it? can it be?" was the intense whisper of Isabel.
"No, it can not be, it is not," replied Pierre; "one of the wonderful coincidences, nothing more."
"Oh, by that word, Pierre, we but vainly seek to explain the inexplicable. Tell me: it is! it must be! it is wonderful!"
"Let us begone; and let us keep eternal silence," said Pierre, quickly; and, seeking Lucy, they abruptly81 left the place; as before, Pierre, seemingly unwilling82 to be accosted83 by any one he knew, or who knew his companions, unconsciously accelerating their steps while forced for a space to tread the thoroughfares.
II.
AS they hurried on, Pierre was silent; but wild thoughts were hurrying and shouting in his heart. The most tremendous displacing and revolutionizing thoughts were upheaving in him, with reference to Isabel; nor—though at the time he was hardly conscious of such a thing—were these thoughts wholly unwelcome to him.
How did he know that Isabel was his sister? Setting aside Aunt Dorothea's nebulous legend, to which, in some shadowy points, here and there Isabel's still more nebulous story seemed to fit on,—though but uncertainly enough—and both of which thus blurredly conjoining narrations84, regarded in the unscrupulous light of real naked reason, were any thing but legitimately85 conclusive86; and setting aside his own dim reminiscences of his wandering father's death-bed; (for though, in one point of view, those reminiscences might have afforded some degree of presumption87 as to his father's having been the parent of an unacknowledged daughter, yet were they entirely inconclusive as to that presumed daughter's identity; and the grand point now with Pierre was, not the general question whether his father had had a daughter, but whether, assuming that he had had, Isabel, rather than any other living being, was that daughter;)—and setting aside all his own manifold and inter-enfolding mystic and transcendental persuasions,—originally born, as he now seemed to feel, purely88 of an intense procreative enthusiasm:—an enthusiasm no longer so all-potential with him as of yore; setting all these aside, and coming to the plain, palpable facts,—how did he know that Isabel was his sister? Nothing that he saw in her face could he remember as having seen in his father's. The chair-portrait, that was the entire sum and substance of all possible, rakable, downright presumptive evidence, which peculiarly appealed to his own separate self. Yet here was another portrait of a complete stranger—a European; a portrait imported from across the seas, and to be sold at public auction, which was just as strong an evidence as the other. Then, the original of this second portrait was as much the father of Isabel as the original of the chair-portrait. But perhaps there was no original at all to this second portrait; it might have been a pure fancy piece; to which conceit89, indeed, the uncharacterizing style of the filling-up seemed to furnish no small testimony90.
With such bewildering meditations91 as these in him, running up like clasping waves upon the strand92 of the most latent secrecies93 of his soul, and with both Isabel and Lucy bodily touching his sides as he walked; the feelings of Pierre were entirely untranslatable into any words that can be used.
Of late to Pierre, much more vividly94 than ever before, the whole story of Isabel had seemed an enigma95, a mystery, an imaginative delirium96; especially since he had got so deep into the inventional mysteries of his book. For he who is most practically and deeply conversant97 with mysticisms and mysteries; he who professionally deals in mysticisms and mysteries himself; often that man, more than any body else, is disposed to regard such things in others as very deceptively bejuggling; and likewise is apt to be rather materialistic98 in all his own merely personal notions (as in their practical lives, with priests of Eleusinian religions), and more than any other man, is often inclined, at the bottom of his soul, to be uncompromisingly skeptical99 on all novel visionary hypotheses of any kind. It is only the no-mystics, or the half-mystics, who, properly speaking, are credulous100. So that in Pierre, was presented the apparent anomaly of a mind, which by becoming really profound in itself, grew skeptical of all tendered profundities101; whereas, the contrary is generally supposed.
By some strange arts Isabel's wonderful story might have been, someway, and for some cause, forged for her, in her childhood, and craftily102 impressed upon her youthful mind; which so—like a slight mark in a young tree—had now enlargingly grown with her growth, till it had become this immense staring marvel103. Tested by any thing real, practical, and reasonable, what less probable, for instance, than that fancied crossing of the sea in her childhood, when upon Pierre's subsequent questioning of her, she did not even know that the sea was salt.
III.
IN the midst of all these mental confusions they arrived at the wharf; and selecting the most inviting104 of the various boats which lay about them in three or four adjacent ferry-slips, and one which was bound for a half-hour's sail across the wide beauty of that glorious bay; they soon found themselves afloat and in swift gliding105 motion.
They stood leaning on the rail of the guard, as the sharp craft darted106 out from among the lofty pine-forests of ships'-masts, and the tangled107 underbrush and cane-brakes of the dwarfed108 sticks of sloops109 and scows. Soon, the spires110 of stone on the land, blent with the masts of wood on the water; the crotch of the twin-rivers pressed the great wedged city almost out of sight. They swept by two little islets distant from the shore; they wholly curved away from the domes111 of free-stone and marble, and gained the great sublime112 dome27 of the bay's wide-open waters.
Small breeze had been felt in the pent city that day, but the fair breeze of naked nature now blew in their faces. The waves began to gather and roll; and just as they gained a point, where—still beyond—between high promontories113 of fortresses114, the wide bay visibly sluiced115 into the Atlantic, Isabel convulsively grasped the arm of Pierre and convulsively spoke.
"I feel it! I feel it! It is! It is!"
"What feelest thou?—what is it?"
"The motion! the motion!"
"Dost thou not understand, Pierre?" said Lucy, eying with concern and wonder his pale, staring aspect—"The waves: it is the motion of the waves that Isabel speaks of. Look, they are rolling, direct from the sea now."
It was impossible altogether to resist the force of this striking corroboration117 of by far the most surprising and improbable thing in the whole surprising and improbable story of Isabel. Well did he remember her vague reminiscence of the teetering sea, that did not slope exactly as the floors of the unknown, abandoned, old house among the French-like mountains.
While plunged118 in these mutually neutralizing120 thoughts of the strange picture and the last exclamations of Isabel, the boat arrived at its destination—a little hamlet on the beach, not very far from the great blue sluice-way into the ocean, which was now yet more distinctly visible than before.
"Don't let us stop here"—cried Isabel. "Look, let us go through there! Bell must go through there! See! see! out there upon the blue! yonder, yonder! far away—out, out!—far, far away, and away, and away, out there! where the two blues121 meet, and are nothing—Bell must go!"
"Why, Isabel," murmured Lucy, "that would be to go to far England or France; thou wouldst find but few friends in far France, Isabel."
"Friends in far France? And what friends have I here?—Art thou my friend? In thy secret heart dost thou wish me well? And for thee, Pierre, what am I but a vile clog122 to thee; dragging thee back from all thy felicity? Yes, I will go yonder—yonder; out there! I will, I will! Unhand me! Let me plunge119!"
For an instant, Lucy looked incoherently from one to the other. But both she and Pierre now mechanically again seized Isabel's frantic123 arms, as they were again thrown over the outer rail of the boat. They dragged her back; they spoke to her; they soothed124 her; but though less vehement125, Isabel still looked deeply distrustfully at Lucy, and deeply reproachfully at Pierre.
They did not leave the boat as intended; too glad were they all, when it unloosed from its fastenings, and turned about upon the backward trip.
Stepping to shore, Pierre once more hurried his companions through the unavoidable publicity126 of the thoroughfares; but less rapidly proceeded, soon as they gained the more secluded127 streets.
IV.
GAINING the Apostles', and leaving his two companions to the privacy of their chambers128, Pierre sat silent and intent by the stove in the dining-room for a time, and then was on the point of entering his closet from the corridor, when Delly, suddenly following him, said to him, that she had forgotten to mention it before, but he would find two letters in his room, which had been separately left at the door during the absence of the party.
He passed into the closet, and slowly shooting the bolt—which, for want of something better, happened to be an old blunted dagger—walked, with his cap yet unmoved, slowly up to the table, and beheld130 the letters. They were lying with their sealed sides up; one in either hand, he lifted them; and held them straight out sideways from him.
"I see not the writing; know not yet, by mine own eye, that they are meant for me; yet, in these hands I feel that I now hold the final poniards that shall stab me; and by stabbing me, make me too a most swift stabber in the recoil131. Which point first?—this!"
He tore open the left-hand letter:—
"SIR:—You are a swindler. Upon the pretense132 of writing a popular novel for us, you have been receiving cash advances from us, while passing through our press the sheets of a blasphemous133 rhapsody, filched134 from the vile Atheists, Lucian and Voltaire. Our great press of publication has hitherto prevented our slightest inspection135 of our reader's proofs of your book. Send not another sheet to us. Our bill for printing thus far, and also for our cash advances, swindled out of us by you, is now in the hands of our lawyer, who is instructed to proceed with instant rigor136.
(Signed) STEEL, FLINT & ASBESTOS."
He folded the left-hand letter, and put it beneath his left heel, and stood upon it so; and then opened the right-hand letter.
"Thou, Pierre Glendinning, art a villainous and perjured138 liar30. It is the sole object of this letter imprintedly to convey the point blank lie to thee; that taken in at thy heart, it may be thence pulsed with thy blood, throughout thy system. We have let some interval pass inactive, to confirm and solidify139 our hate. Separately, and together, we brand thee, in thy every lung-cell, a liar;—liar, because that is the scornfullest and loathsomest title for a man; which in itself is the compend of all infamous140 things.
(Signed) GLENDINNING STANLY,
FREDERIC TARTAN."
He folded the right-hand letter, and put it beneath his right heel; then folding his two arms, stood upon both the letters.
"These are most small circumstances; but happening just now to me, become indices to all immensities. For now am I hate-shod! On these I will skate to my acquittal! No longer do I hold terms with aught. World's bread of life, and world's breath of honor, both are snatched from me; but I defy all world's bread and breath. Here I step out before the drawn141-up worlds in widest space, and challenge one and all of them to battle! Oh, Glen! oh, Fred! most fraternally do I leap to your rib-crushing hugs! Oh, how I love ye two, that yet can make me lively hate, in a world which elsewise only merits stagnant142 scorn!—Now, then, where is this swindler's, this coiner's book? Here, on this vile counter, over which the coiner thought to pass it to the world, here will I nail it fast, for a detected cheat! And thus nailed fast now, do I spit upon it, and so get the start of the wise world's worst abuse of it! Now I go out to meet my fate, walking toward me in the street."
As with hat on, and Glen and Frederic's letter invisibly crumpled143 in his hand, he—as it were somnambulously—passed into the room of Isabel, she gave loose to a thin, long shriek144, at his wondrous145 white and haggard plight146; and then, without the power to stir toward him, sat petrified147 in her chair, as one embalmed148 and glazed149 with icy varnish150.
He heeded151 her not, but passed straight on through both intervening rooms, and without a knock unpremeditatedly entered Lucy's chamber129. He would have passed out of that, also, into the corridor, without one word; but something stayed him.
The marble girl sat before her easel; a small box of pointed153 charcoal154, and some pencils by her side; her painter's wand held out against the frame; the charcoal-pencil suspended in two fingers, while with the same hand, holding a crust of bread, she was lightly brushing the portrait-paper, to efface155 some ill-considered stroke. The floor was scattered156 with the bread-crumbs and charcoal-dust; he looked behind the easel, and saw his own portrait, in the skeleton.
At the first glimpse of him, Lucy started not, nor stirred; but as if her own wand had there enchanted157 her, sat tranced.
"Dead embers of departed fires lie by thee, thou pale girl; with dead embers thou seekest to relume the flame of all extinguished love! Waste not so that bread; eat it—in bitterness!"
He turned, and entered the corridor, and then, with outstretched arms, paused between the two outer doors of Isabel and Lucy.
"For ye two, my most undiluted prayer is now, that from your here unseen and frozen chairs ye may never stir alive;—the fool of Truth, the fool of Virtue158, the fool of Fate, now quits ye forever!"
"What, what, my boy? where now in such a squally hurry? Hallo, I say!"
But without heeding160 him at all, Pierre drove on. Millthorpe looked anxiously and alarmedly after him a moment, then made a movement in pursuit, but paused again.
"There was ever a black vein161 in this Glendinning; and now that vein is swelled162, as if it were just one peg163 above a tourniquet164 drawn over-tight. I scarce durst dog him now; yet my heart misgives165 me that I should.—Shall I go to his rooms and ask what black thing this is that hath befallen him?—No; not yet;—might be thought officious—they say I'm given to that. I'll wait; something may turn up soon. I'll into the front street, and saunter some; and then—we'll see."
V.
PIERRE passed on to a remote quarter of the building, and abruptly entered the room of one of the Apostles whom he knew. There was no one in it. He hesitated an instant; then walked up to a book-case, with a chest of drawers in the lower part.
"Here I saw him put them:—this,—no—here—ay—we'll try this."
Wrenching166 open the locked drawer, a brace167 of pistols, a powder flask168, a bullet-bag, and a round green box of percussion-caps lay before him.
"Ha! what wondrous tools Prometheus used, who knows? but more wondrous these, that in an instant, can unmake the topmost three-score-years-and-ten of all Prometheus' makings. Come: here's two tubes that'll outroar the thousand pipes of Harlem.—Is the music in 'em?—No?—Well then, here's powder for the shrill169 treble; and wadding for the tenor170; and a lead bullet for the concluding bass171! And,—and,—and,—ay; for the top-wadding, I'll send 'em back their lie, and plant it scorching172 in their brains!"
He tore off that part of Glen and Fred's letter, which more particularly gave the lie; and halving173 it, rammed174 it home upon the bullets.
He thrust a pistol into either breast of his coat; and taking the rearward passages, went down into the back street; directing his rapid steps toward the grand central thoroughfare of the city.
It was a cold, but clear, quiet, and slantingly sunny day; it was between four and five of the afternoon; that hour, when the great glaring avenue was most thronged175 with haughty-rolling carriages, and proud-rustling promenaders, both men and women. But these last were mostly confined to the one wide pavement to the West; the other pavement was well nigh deserted177, save by porters, waiters, and parcel-carriers of the shops. On the west pave, up and down, for three long miles, two streams of glossy178, shawled, or broadcloth life unceasingly brushed by each other, as long, resplendent, drooping179 trains of rival peacocks brush.
Mixing with neither of these, Pierre stalked midway between. From his wild and fatal aspect, one way the people took the wall, the other way they took the curb180. Unentangledly Pierre threaded all their host, though in its inmost heart. Bent181 he was, on a straightforward182, mathematical intent. His eyes were all about him as he went; especially he glanced over to the deserted pavement opposite; for that emptiness did not deceive him; he himself had often walked that side, the better to scan the pouring throng176 upon the other.
Just as he gained a large, open, triangular183 space, built round with the stateliest public erections;—the very proscenium of the town;—he saw Glen and Fred advancing, in the distance, on the other side. He continued on; and soon he saw them crossing over to him obliquely184, so as to take him face-and-face. He continued on; when suddenly running ahead of Fred, who now chafingly stood still (because Fred would not make two, in the direct personal assault upon one) and shouting "Liar! Villain137!" Glen leaped toward Pierre from front, and with such lightning-like ferocity, that the simultaneous blow of his cowhide smote185 Pierre across the cheek, and left a half-livid and half-bloody186 brand.
For that one moment, the people fell back on all sides from them; and left them—momentarily recoiled187 from each other—in a ring of panics.
But clapping both hands to his two breasts, Pierre, on both sides shaking off the sudden white grasp of two rushing girls, tore out both pistols, and rushed headlong upon Glen.
"For thy one blow, take here two deaths! 'Tis speechless sweet to murder thee!"
Spatterings of his own kindred blood were upon the pavement; his own hand had extinguished his house in slaughtering188 the only unoutlawed human being by the name of Glendinning;—and Pierre was seized by a hundred contending hands.
VI.
THAT sundown, Pierre stood solitary189 in a low dungeon190 of the city prison. The cumbersome191 stone ceiling almost rested on his brow; so that the long tiers of massive cell-galleries above seemed partly piled on him. His immortal192, immovable, bleached193 cheek was dry; but the stone cheeks of the walls were trickling194. The pent twilight195 of the contracted yard, coming through the barred arrow-slit, fell in dim bars upon the granite196 floor.
"Here, then, is the untimely, timely end;—Life's last chapter well stitched into the middle! Nor book, nor author of the book, hath any sequel, though each hath its last lettering!—It is ambiguous still. Had I been heartless now, disowned, and spurningly portioned off the girl at Saddle Meadows, then had I been happy through a long life on earth, and perchance through a long eternity197 in heaven! Now, 'tis merely hell in both worlds. Well, be it hell. I will mold a trumpet198 of the flames, and, with my breath of flame, breathe back my defiance! But give me first another body! I long and long to die, to be rid of this dishonored cheek. Hung by the neck till thou be dead.—Not if I forestall199 you, though!—Oh now to live is death, and now to die is life; now, to my soul, were a sword my midwife!—Hark!—the hangman?—who comes?"
"Thy wife and cousin—so they say;—hope they may be; they may stay till twelve;" wheezingly200 answered a turnkey, pushing the tottering201 girls into the cell, and locking the door upon them.
"Ye two pale ghosts, were this the other world, ye were not welcome. Away!—Good Angel and Bad Angel both!—For Pierre is neuter now!"
"Oh, ye stony202 roofs, and seven-fold stony skies!—not thou art the murderer, but thy sister hath murdered thee, my brother, oh my brother!"
At these wailed203 words from Isabel, Lucy shrunk up like a scroll204, and noiselessly fell at the feet of Pierre.
He touched her heart.—"Dead!—Girl! wife or sister, saint or fiend!"—seizing Isabel in his grasp—"in thy breasts, life for infants lodgeth not, but death-milk for thee and me!—The drug!" and tearing her bosom205 loose, he seized the secret vial nesting there.
VII.
AT night the squat-framed, asthmatic turnkey tramped the dim-lit iron gallery before one of the long honey-combed rows of cells.
Suddenly, at the further end of the gallery, he discerned a shadowy figure emerging from the archway there, and running on before an officer, and impetuously approaching where the turnkey stood.
"More relations coming. These wind-broken chaps are always in before the second death, seeing they always miss the first.—Humph! What a froth the fellow's in?—Wheezes worse than me!"
"Where is she?" cried Fred Tartan, fiercely, to him; "she's not at the murderer's rooms! I sought the sweet girl there, instant upon the blow; but the lone4 dumb thing I found there only wrung207 her speechless hands and pointed to the door;—both birds were flown! Where is she, turnkey? I've searched all lengths and breadths but this. Hath any angel swept adown and lighted in your granite hell?"
"Broken his wind, and broken loose, too, aint he?" wheezed208 the turnkey to the officer who now came up.
"This gentleman seeks a young lady, his sister, someway innocently connected with the prisoner last brought in. Have any females been here to see him?"
Fred darted toward the designated cell.
"Oh, easy, easy, young gentleman"—jingling at his huge bunch of keys—"easy, easy, till I get the picks—I'm housewife here.—Hallo, here comes another."
Hurrying through the same archway toward them, there now rapidly advanced a second impetuous figure, running on in advance of a second officer.
"Where is the cell?" demanded Millthorpe.
"He seeks an interview with the last prisoner," explained the second officer.
"Kill 'em both with one stone, then," wheezed the turnkey, gratingly throwing open the door of the cell. "There's his pretty parlor210, gentlemen; step in. Reg'lar mouse-hole, arn't it?—Might hear a rabbit burrow211 on the world's t'other side;—are they all 'sleep?"
"I stumble!" cried Fred, from within; "Lucy! A light! a light!—Lucy!" And he wildly groped about the cell, and blindly caught Millthorpe, who was also wildly groping.
Then both stumbled again, and fell from each other in the cell: and for a moment all seemed still, as though all breaths were held.
As the light was now thrust in, Fred was seen on the floor holding his sister in his arms; and Millthorpe kneeling by the side of Pierre, the unresponsive hand in his; while Isabel, feebly moving, reclined between, against the wall.
"Yes! Yes!—Dead! Dead! Dead!—without one visible wound—her sweet plumage hides it.—Thou hellish carrion213, this is thy hellish work! Thy juggler's rifle brought down this heavenly bird! Oh, my God, my God! Thou scalpest me with this sight!"
"The dark vein's burst, and here's the deluge-wreck—all stranded214 here! Ah, Pierre! my old companion, Pierre;—school-mate—play-mate—friend!—Our sweet boy's walks within the woods!—Oh, I would have rallied thee, and banteringly warned thee from thy too moody215 ways, but thou wouldst never heed152! What scornful innocence216 rests on thy lips, my friend!—Hand scorched217 with murderer's powder, yet how woman-soft!—By heaven, these fingers move!—one speechless clasp!—all's o'er!"
"All's o'er, and ye know him not!" came gasping218 from the wall; and from the fingers of Isabel dropped an empty vial—as it had been a run-out sand-glass—and shivered upon the floor; and her whole form sloped sideways, and she fell upon Pierre's heart, and her long hair ran over him, and arbored him in ebon vines.
FINIS.
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1
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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3
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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intercept
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| vt.拦截，截住，截击 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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17
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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18
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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19
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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20
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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21
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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23
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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28
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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29
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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30
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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31
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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32
bungling
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| adj.笨拙的，粗劣的v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的现在分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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33
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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34
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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35
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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37
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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38
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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majesties
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| n.雄伟( majesty的名词复数 )；庄严；陛下；王权 | |
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40
contemptibly
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| adv.卑鄙地，下贱地 | |
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41
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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42
knavery
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| n.恶行，欺诈的行为 | |
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43
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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44
hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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45
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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46
neutralizes
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| v.使失效( neutralize的第三人称单数 )；抵消；中和；使（一个国家）中立化 | |
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47
victoriously
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| adv.获胜地，胜利地 | |
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48
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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49
connoisseurs
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| n.鉴赏家，鉴定家，行家( connoisseur的名词复数 ) | |
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50
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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51
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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52
impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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53
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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54
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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55
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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57
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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58
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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59
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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60
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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61
funereally
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| adj.送葬的，悲哀的，适合葬礼的 | |
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62
intensifies
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| n.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的名词复数 )v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的第三人称单数 ) | |
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63
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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64
parricide
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| n.杀父母；杀亲罪 | |
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65
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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66
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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67
portentously
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68
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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69
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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70
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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71
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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72
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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73
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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74
analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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75
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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76
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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77
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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78
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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79
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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80
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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81
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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82
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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83
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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84
narrations
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| 叙述事情的经过，故事( narration的名词复数 ) | |
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85
legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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86
conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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87
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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88
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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89
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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90
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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91
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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92
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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93
secrecies
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| 保密（secrecy的复数形式） | |
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94
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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95
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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96
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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97
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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98
materialistic
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| a.唯物主义的，物质享乐主义的 | |
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99
skeptical
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| adj.怀疑的，多疑的 | |
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100
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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101
profundities
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| n.深奥，深刻，深厚( profundity的名词复数 )；堂奥 | |
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102
craftily
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| 狡猾地，狡诈地 | |
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103
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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104
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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105
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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106
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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107
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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108
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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109
sloops
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| n.单桅纵帆船( sloop的名词复数 ) | |
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110
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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111
domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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112
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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113
promontories
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| n.岬，隆起，海角( promontory的名词复数 ) | |
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114
fortresses
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| 堡垒，要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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115
sluiced
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| v.冲洗( sluice的过去式和过去分词 )；（指水）喷涌而出；漂净；给…安装水闸 | |
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116
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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117
corroboration
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| n.进一步的证实，进一步的证据 | |
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118
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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119
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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120
neutralizing
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| v.使失效( neutralize的现在分词 )；抵消；中和；使（一个国家）中立化 | |
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121
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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122
clog
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| vt.塞满，阻塞；n.[常pl.]木屐 | |
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123
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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124
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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125
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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126
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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127
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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128
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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129
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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130
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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131
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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132
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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133
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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134
filched
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| v.偷（尤指小的或不贵重的物品）( filch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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136
rigor
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| n.严酷，严格，严厉 | |
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137
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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138
perjured
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| adj.伪证的，犯伪证罪的v.发假誓，作伪证( perjure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
solidify
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| v.(使)凝固，(使)固化，(使)团结 | |
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140
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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141
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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142
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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143
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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144
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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145
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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146
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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147
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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148
embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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149
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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150
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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151
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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153
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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154
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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155
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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156
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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157
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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158
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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159
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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160
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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161
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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162
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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163
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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164
tourniquet
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| n.止血器，绞压器，驱血带 | |
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165
misgives
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| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的第三人称单数 ) | |
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166
wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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167
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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168
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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169
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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170
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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171
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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172
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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173
halving
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| n.对分，二等分，减半[航空、航海]等分v.把…分成两半( halve的现在分词 )；把…减半；对分；平摊 | |
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174
rammed
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| v.夯实（土等）( ram的过去式和过去分词 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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175
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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177
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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178
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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179
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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180
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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181
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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182
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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183
triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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184
obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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185
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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186
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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187
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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188
slaughtering
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的现在分词 ) | |
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189
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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190
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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191
cumbersome
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| adj.笨重的，不便携带的 | |
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192
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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193
bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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194
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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195
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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196
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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197
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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198
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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199
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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200
wheezingly
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| adv.哮喘地，喘息地 | |
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201
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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202
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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203
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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204
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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205
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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206
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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207
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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208
wheezed
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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209
stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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210
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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211
burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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212
blister
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| n.水疱；(油漆等的)气泡；v.(使)起泡 | |
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213
carrion
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| n.腐肉 | |
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214
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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215
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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216
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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217
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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218
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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