It rattled8 loose window-casings in the hotel, so that people turned uneasily in their beds. It sent strange creatures of the imagination to prowl about. Cowmen thought of the depleted9 herds10 when the riders should come in off the free ranges in the Spring should that moaning wind mean a real northwester.
Louise was awakened11 by a sudden shriek12 of wind that swept through the slight aperture13 left by the raised window and sent something crashing to the floor. She lay for a moment drowsily14 wondering what had fallen. Was it anything that could be broken? She heard the steady push of the wind against the frail15 frame building, and knew she ought to compel herself sufficiently16 to be aroused to close the window. But she was very sleepy. The crash had not awakened Mary. She was breathing quietly and deeply. But she would be amenable17 to a touch—just a light one—and she did not mind doing things. How mean, though, to administer it in such a cause. She could not do it. The dilapidated green blind was flapping dismally18. What time was it? Maybe it was nearly morning, and then the wind would probably go down. That would save her from getting up. She snuggled under the covers and prepared to slip deliciously off into slumber19 again.
But she couldn’t go to sleep after all. A haunting suspicion preyed20 on her waking faculties21 that the crash might have been the water pitcher22. She had been asleep and could not gauge23 the shock of the fall. It had seemed terrific, but what awakens24 one from sleep is always abnormal to one’s startled and unremembering consciousness. Still, it might have been the pitcher. She cherished no fond delusion25 as to the impenetrability of the warped26 cottonwood flooring. Water might even then be trickling27 through to the room below. She found herself wondering where the bed stood, and that thought brought her sitting up in a hurry only to remember that she was over the musty sitting room with its impossible carpet. She would be glad to see it soaked—it might put a little color into it, temporarily at least, and lay the dust of ages. But, sitting up, she felt herself enveloped28 in a gale29 of wind that played over the bed, and so wisely concluded that if she wished to see this court through without the risk of grippe or pneumonia30 complications, she had better close that window. So she slipped cautiously out of bed, nervously31 apprehensive32 of plunging33 her feet into a pool of water. It had not been the pitcher after all. Even after the window was closed, there seemed to be much air in the room. The blind still flapped, though at longer intervals34. If it really turned cold, how were they to live in that barn-like room, she and Mary? She thought of the campers out on the flat and shivered. She looked out of the window musingly35 a moment. It was dark. She wondered if Gordon had come home. Of course he was home. It must be nearly morning. Her feet were getting cold, so she crept back into bed. The next thing of which she was conscious, Mary was shaking her excitedly.
“What is it?” she asked, sleepily.
“Louise! There’s a fire somewhere! Listen!”
Some one rushed quickly through the hall; others followed, knocking against the walls in the darkness. Then the awful, heart-clutching clang of a bell rang out—near, insistent36, metallic37. It was the meeting-house bell. There was no other in the town. The girls sprang to the floor. The thought had found swift lodgment in the mind of each that the hotel was on fire, and in that moment Louise thought of the poisoned meat that had once been served to some arch-enemies of the gang whose chief was now on trial for his liberty. So quickly does the brain work under stress of great crises, that, even before she had her shoes and stockings on, she found herself wondering who was the marked victim this time. Not Williston,—he was dead. Not Gordon,—he slept in his own room back of the office. Not Langford,—he was bunking38 with his friend in that same room. Jim Munson? Or was the Judge the proscribed39 one? He was not a corrupt40 judge. He could not be bought. It might be he. Mary had gone to the window.
True. The cloudy sky was reddened above the poor little temple of justice where for days and weeks the tide of human interest of a big part of a big State—ay, a big part of all the northwest country, maybe—had been steadily42 setting in and had reached its culmination43 only yesterday, when a gray eyed, drooping-shouldered, firm-jawed young man had at last faced quietly in the bar of his court the defier of the cow country. To-night, it would dance its little measure, recite its few lines on its little stage of popularity before an audience frenzied44 with appreciation45 and interest; to-morrow, it would be a heap of ashes, its scene played out.
“My note books!” cried Louise, in a flash of comprehension. She dressed hastily. Shirt-waist was too intricate, so she threw on a gay Japanese kimono; her jacket and walking skirt concealed46 the limitations of her attire47.
“What are you going to do?” asked Mary, also putting on clothes which were easy of adjustment. She had never gone to fires in the old days before she had come to South Dakota; but if Louise went—gentle, high-bred Louise—why, she would go too, that was all there was about it. She had constituted herself Louise’s guardian48 in this rough life that must be so alien to the Eastern girl. Louise had been very good to her. Louise’s startled cry about her note books carried little understanding to her. She was not used to court and its ways.
They hastened out into the hallway and down the stairs. They saw no one whom they knew, though men were still dodging49 out from unexpected places and hurrying down the street. It seemed impossible that the inconveniently50 built, diminutive51 prairie hotel could accommodate so many people. Louise found herself wondering where they had been packed away. The men, carelessly dressed as they were, their hair shaggy and unkempt, always with pistols in belt or hip-pocket or hand, made her shiver with dread52. They looked so wild and weird53 and fierce in the dimly lighted hall. She clutched Mary’s arm nervously, but no thought of returning entered her mind. Probably the Judge was already on the court-house grounds. He would want to save some valuable books he had been reading in his official quarters. So they went out into the bleak54 and windy night. They were immediately enveloped in a wild gust55 that nearly swept them off their feet as it came tearing down the street. They clung together for a moment.
“It’ll burn like hell in this wind!” some one cried, as a bunch of men hurried past them. The words were literally56 whipped out of his mouth. “Won’t save a thing.”
Flames were bursting out of the front windows upstairs. The sky was all alight. Sparks were tossed madly southward by the wind. There was grave danger for buildings other than the one already doomed57. The roar of the wind and the flames was well-nigh deafening58. The back windows and stairs seemed clear.
“Hurry, Mary, hurry!” cried Louise, above the roar, and pressed forward, stumbling and gasping59 for the breath that the wild wind coveted60. It was not far they had to go. There was a jam of men in the yard. More were coming up. But there was nothing to do. Men shook their heads and shrugged61 their shoulders and watched the progress of the inevitable62 with the placidity63 engendered64 of the potent65 “It can’t be helped.” But some things might have been saved that were not saved had the first on the grounds not rested so securely on that quieting inevitability66. As the girls came within the crowded circle of light, they overheard something of a gallant67 attempt on the part of somebody to save the county records—they did not hear whether or no the attempt had been successful. They made their way to the rear. It was still dark.
“Louise! What are you going to do?” cried Mary, in consternation68. There were few people on this side. Louise put her hand deliberately69 to the door-knob. It gave to her pressure—the door swung open. Some one stumbled out blindly and leaned against the wall for a moment, his hands over his eyes.
The man cried out sharply, and stretched out a detaining hand. “Are you crazy? Come back!”
“Mr. Gordon!” cried Louise, with a little sob73 of relief, “is it really you? Let me go—quick—my note books!”
A thick cloud of smoke at that moment came rolling down the back stairs. It enveloped them. It went down their throats and made them cough. The man, throwing an arm over the shoulders of the slender girl who had started up after the first shock of the smoke had passed away, pushed her gently but firmly outside.
“Don’t let her come, Mary,” he called back, clearly. “I’ll get the note books—if I can.” Then he was gone—up the smoke-wreathed stairway.
Outside, the girls waited. It seemed hours. The wind, howling around the corners, whipped their skirts. There was a colder edge to it. Fire at last broke out of the back windows simultaneously74 with the sound of breaking glass, and huge billows of released black smoke surged out from the new outlet75. Louise started forward. She never knew afterward76 just what she meant to do, but she sprang away from Mary’s encircling arm and ran up the little flight of steps leading to the door from which she had been so unceremoniously thrust. Afterward, when they told her, she realized what her impulsive77 action meant, but now she did not think. She was only conscious of some wild, vague impulse to fly to the help of the man who would even now be safe in blessed outdoors had it not been for her and her foolish woman’s whim78. She had sent him to his death. What were those wretched note books—what was anything at all in comparison to his life! So she stumbled blindly up the steps. The wind had slammed the door shut. It was a cruel obstacle to keep her back. She wrenched79 it open. The clouds of smoke that met her, rolling out of their imprisonment80 like pent up steam, choked her, blinded her, beat her back. She strove impotently against it. She tried to fight it off with her hands—those little intensely feminine hands whose fortune Gordon longed to take upon himself forever and forever. They were so small and weak to fend81 for themselves. But small as they were, it was a good thing they did that night. Now Mary had firm hold of her and would not let her go. She struggled desperately82 and tried to push her off, but vainly, for Mary had twice her strength.
“Mary, I shall never forgive you—”
She did not finish her sentence, for at that moment Gordon staggered out into the air. He sat down on the bottom step as if he were drunk, but little darts83 of flame colored the surging smoke here and there in weird splotches and, suddenly calm now that there was something to do, Mary and Louise led him away from the doomed building where the keen wind soon blew the choking smoke from his eyes and throat.
“I’ve swallowed a ton,” he said, recovering himself quickly. “I couldn’t get them, Louise.” He did not know he called her so.
“Oh, what does it matter?” cried Louise, earnestly. “Only forgive me for sending you.”
“As I remember it, I sent myself,” said Gordon, with a humorous smile, “and, I am afraid, tumbled one little girl rather unceremoniously down the stairs. Did I hurt you?” There was a caressing84 cadence85 in the question that he could not for the life of him keep out of his voice.
“I did not even know I tumbled. How did you get back?” said Louise, tremulously.
“Who opened the door?” counter-questioned Gordon, remembering. “The wind must have blown it shut. I was blinded—I couldn’t find it—I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t have sense enough to know it was shut, but I couldn’t have helped myself anyway. I groped for it as long as I could without breathing. Then I guess I must have gone off a little, for I was sprawling86 on the floor of the lower hall when I felt a breath of air playing over me. Somebody must have opened the door—because I am pretty sure I had fainted or done some foolish thing.”
Louise was silent. She was thankful—thankful! God had been very good to her. It had been given to her to do this thing. She had not meant to do it—she had not known what she did; enough that it was done.
“But I didn’t do it on purpose,” said Louise, with shining eyes. “I—I—”
“Yes, you—” prompted Gordon, looking at her with tender intentness.
“I guess I was trying to come after you,” she confessed. “It was very—foolish.”
The rear grounds were rapidly filling up. Like children following a band-wagon, the crowd surged toward the new excitement of the discovered extension of the fire. Gordon drew a long breath.
“I thank God for your—foolishness,” he said, simply, smiling the smile his friends loved him for.
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收听单词发音
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1
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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portents
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| n.预兆( portent的名词复数 )；征兆；怪事；奇物 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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migration
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| n.迁移，移居，（鸟类等的）迁徙 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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depleted
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| adj. 枯竭的, 废弃的 动词deplete的过去式和过去分词 | |
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herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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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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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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27
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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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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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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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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38
bunking
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| v.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的现在分词 )；空话，废话 | |
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39
proscribed
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| v.正式宣布（某事物）有危险或被禁止( proscribe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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41
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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42
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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43
culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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44
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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49
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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50
inconveniently
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| ad.不方便地 | |
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51
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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52
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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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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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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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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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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inevitability
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| n.必然性 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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76
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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80
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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81
fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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82
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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83
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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84
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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85
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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86
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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87
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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