“GOD has sent you to the right place here,” said Father Studby, solemnly, to the lay brother. “Life in Lauli’i flows in the same channel, day by day, year by year, so that we wonder to grow old and are surprised to see our changing faces in the glass. When we think, it is of the goodness of God; when we fear, it is for the sick or for the machinations of the Evil One. Our little bay is a monastery1, remote from all the passions and fevers of mankind; and the people we live among are pleasant children, naïve, gay, and pious2.”
“You must not consider me a sick man,” said Brother Michael, with his dark smile. “I am worn out with teaching, and the hot bustle3 of Nukualofa. The doctor said I needed rest, that I needed peace and fresh air, and the bishop4 has sent me here to get them.”
“In Nukualofa,” said the old priest, who entertained a partisan’s contempt for the neighbouring island, “in Nukualofa they do not know the meaning of those words. They exist in a frenzy5 of excitement, amid the intrigues6 of three conflicting nationalities; one’s ear is dinned7 with rumours8; and one wearies with the very names of consuls9 and captains. One cannot take a walk without beholding11 a fresh proclamation on a cocoanut-tree, or turn round without offending[238] some preposterous12 regulation. The natives wear trousers and drink whisky; they model themselves on the dissolute whites set over them, and degenerate13 as rapidly as their masters.”
“I never could see what people found to like in the natives,” said the lay brother. “I dare say they are good enough in their way, and fill a necessary place in the world, but to me they are greasy14 and offensive.”
“Ah, but you have never seen the true Samoan,” exclaimed the priest. “Here it is so different from Nukualofa. Here our people are better born; here they are self-respecting, honest, and kind; here you will see at once an astonishing contrast to those you have left.”
Once launched on his favourite topic, the superiority of Lauli’i to all the villages of the group, the old missionary15 knew not when to stop, and his interminable tongue ran on in an unceasing harangue16. The new-comer listened with a sort of detachment, as he might have done to some strange parrot screaming in a zoo, assenting17 by perfunctory nods to that long tale of Samoan virtue18, religion, and generosity19. His black eyes ranged about the room and through the open window at its back, where, within a distance of a dozen yards, a little church half barred the vista21 of peaks and forest. Still talking, Father Studby led him away to see it, this scene of his professional life which had been raised, stone upon stone, by his own assiduous hands. The lay brother was shown the altar, with its artless decoration of tissue-paper flowers; the pulpit inlaid with pearl-shell; the sacramental vessels23 in[239] their wrappings of tapa-cloth. The father seated himself at a crazy harmonium, which was planted on the sandy floor like some derelict cast up by the sea, and ran his fingers over the yellow keys. He played, after a manner, with considerable skill and vivacity24, his preference being for the sentimental25 ballads26 of his youth, and the dance-music which had then been in fashion. It was strange to hear these old waltzes, so long dead and forgotten, coming to life again in that darkened chapel27 and from the hands of such a player. The lay brother leaned against an open window, from which there was a wonderful view of wooded mountains half screened in mist, and sighed moodily28 as he gazed about him. Under the spell of those swaying measures, his heart returned to the Australian plains where he had been born, and he felt himself, indeed, an exile.
On leaving the church, the father took him on a little tour of the garden: showed him the cemented oven where the bread was baked, the roofed-in spring, the hives, the cow, the imported cock, everything, in fact, down to the grindstone and the rusty29 scythe30.
Michael followed as in duty bound; asked the proper questions; showed everywhere a becoming interest; endured it all with propriety31. He asked his host many questions, some of them the inspiration of mere32 politeness, such as the best food for chickens, and the precautions to be taken in handling bees; others, in which he seemed more genuinely concerned, as to the nature of the inland country and its resources. He was surprised to hear that the island[240] had only once been crossed by whites; he was impatient of the priest’s statement that it did not greatly matter, as the natives suffered in social consideration by living too far from the sea, and were, besides, better off for the fish it afforded and the easy means of communication.
“There are other things in Samoa besides Samoans,” exclaimed Brother Michael, with a disdain33 that he could but ill conceal34. “Here is an island scarcely forty miles wide, which apparently35 has only once been crossed in the memory of living man. Why, the thing stirs the imagination; it makes the blood tingle36 in one’s veins37; it makes one speculate on a thousand possibilities. In those secluded38 depths there may be the ruins of ancient cities; mouldering39 tombs covered with hieroglyphs40; perhaps even another race still surviving in those inner valleys! There may be whole forests of sandalwood, beds of fine coal, deposits of rich ores. Who knows, but there may be gold!”
Father Studby crossed himself.
“God forbid,” he said.
“You must remember,” he went on, “that every village has some knowledge of the land behind it, and if you could combine what they know you would find that the interior is not such a mystery as you imagine; though, of course, there may be tracts42 which have never yet been penetrated44 by a white man. At one time and another I have been many miles inland of Lauli’i, but I never got so far but what every gully had a name, every acre an owner. Why our people should[241] dispute among themselves for such blocks of worthless forest and rock is a thing beyond my comprehension; but as a matter of fact they do attach an inordinate45 value to them, and it would astound46 you to find how exactly the boundaries are remembered.”
“You interest me immensely,” said the lay brother. “I see that you can tell me everything I want to know, and I congratulate myself again that my lucky star has brought me to your door. In Nukualofa they could not answer half my questions.”
“In Nukualofa,” said Father Studby, bitterly, “they know nothing,—less than nothing,—for they mislead you and tell you lies. The natives there, besides, are of a low stock, interbred with out-islanders and without an ancestry47 among them. You will look in vain for such a man as our Maunga, who goes back seventeen generations to the legendary48 Fasito’o, or a family such as the Sā; Satupaialā;, who have what you might almost call a special language of their own. They die, they spit, they moor49 a boat, they steal breadfruit, they commit adultery, all in different words from those commonly employed. It has been my pleasure, you might almost call it my folly50, to absorb myself in such studies. I am afraid you will find me nothing more than an old Kanaka pundit51, with my cracked head full of legends and ancient songs.”
The priest saw very little of his guest, who followed the doctor’s prescription52 of fresh air with a literalness that made him almost a stranger in the house. Every morning, after participating in the service in the little church, Brother Michael would take his gun[242] and disappear for the day, returning at sundown with what pigeons he had shot, and an appetite that played havoc53 with his host’s frugal54 housekeeping. He would eat a pound of meat at a sitting, make way with an entire loaf of bread, and thought nothing of helping55 himself four times to marmalade, in spite of the father’s disapproving57 looks, and the calculated contrast of his bare plate. In the light of that frightful58 inroad on his provisions, Father Studby’s good opinion of the stranger began to change into a sentiment approaching aversion, and it seemed to him an added injury that the young man would no longer eat his own pigeons, insisting, with gross self-indulgence, on an unending succession of chicken, ham, and costly59 preserves. He said that taro60 gave him heartburn, evoked61 the physician’s ban on all native food, and demanded, on the same shadowy authority, a daily ration22 of brandy from the father’s slender stock. It was hard on the old missionary, who was abstemious62 to a degree and seldom allowed himself the comfort of a dram, to pour his liquor down that insatiable throat, and be condemned63 to hold the bottle, while the other smacked64 his lips like a beach-comber in a bar, in no wise ashamed to drink alone. The bottle, too, until it was placed under lock and key, showed a tendency to decline unduly65, and even biscuit and sardines66 were not exempt67 from a similar and no less exasperating68 shrinkage. And then, in his religious exercises the lay brother betrayed a disheartening coldness, and what spiritual fire had ever been in him seemed smothered69 over[243] with torpor70 and indifference71. His vocation72 meant no more to him than a means to live. He yawned at mass, nodded intermittently73 through the priest’s interminable sermons, and when it was proposed that he should take temporary charge of the school he did not hesitate for a moment to refuse.
Of course, a word to Nukualofa would have speedily rid Father Studby of his guest; he had only to write, to expostulate, and the thing was done. More than once, under the influence of some particular indignation, he had set himself to the task. But he had never got beyond the first few lines before his natural generosity reasserted itself. Who was he, that he should make himself the young man’s judge; that he should help, perhaps, to mar56 prospects74 none too bright, and throw the last stone at one already tottering75 to his fall? Besides, were the grounds of his objection as sincere as he imagined? Was he not meanly condemning76 the lay brother for his appetite, for the hole that he was making in that dwindling77 larder78, rather than for his lack of religious conviction which at times seemed so shocking? After all, was it not natural for a young man to eat well, to help himself unchecked to marmalade, to devour79 expensive tinned meats like a wolf? It was the result of those immense walks, ordered by the doctor, to which Michael so assiduously applied80 himself. Was there not something even admirable in so strict an obedience81 to hygiene82, especially in one constitutionally slothful and self-indulgent?
One afternoon Michael returned from his walk in a state of high excitement. His black eyes were burning,[244] and for once, contrary to his usual habit, he was extraordinarily83 noisy and talkative. He kept breaking out into wild laughter, even when not a word was said, and seemed to possess, buried somewhere within him, the secret of an unextinguishable entertainment. Instead of dozing84 after supper in his chair, he grew, if anything, wider awake than ever, and his hilarity85 continued with a kind of violence. Father Studby was carried off his feet by that wave of gaiety; he felt the contagion86 of that singular fever which had so transformed his companion; he, too, laughed at nothing, and found himself talking with an animation87 that he could not remember to have displayed for years. But with it all he had an unaccountable sense of suspicion, of being on his guard against something, he knew not what, of some pitfall88 yawning for his unwary feet. He felt that he was watched; that those strange, mocking eyes of his companion were mutely tempting89 him to evil; at times he almost wondered whether the dark lay brother were not the devil himself.
The young man’s talk was rambling90 and inconsequent, a mere rattle91 of autobiography92, punctuated93 with laughter. He had much to say of his college days; his penury94; his struggles; his shabby makeshifts; the pranks95 he and his companions had played on the professors. He roared as he recalled them, and hammered the table with his fist. He spoke96 of his mother and her hard life; the ne’er-do-well father; the brother that drank; the sister with the hip97 disease. And from that again to the price of native land, the[245] way to secure good titles, the need, as he had been told, to buy the same property from a dozen conflicting owners. Then he broke out about the power of money, the unlimited98 power of money, the lawlessness of money in unprincipled hands; the way it could buy everything the world had to offer, social position, beautiful women, the entrée to great houses. With money, what could a man ask for in vain! In this world, he meant, of course—in this world. In the next, thank God, it would be different; the rich would pay through the nose then for their pleasures. But some of them perhaps would not repent99 it; the most would be as bad again, if only the chance were offered; the dogs would return to their vomit100.
Father Studby listened to these confidences with amazement101; they depressed102 and angered him unspeakably; they seemed to disclose in his companion a cynicism and a moral deficiency that he had not previously103 suspected. He felt, too, as he had never felt before, the full horror of that brutal104 civilisation105, so merciless, so inexorable, its obliterating106 march whitened with the bones of thousands; everything with its price, even to the honour of shrinking women and the corpses108 of the dead. If you had no money the wheels rolled over you; if you had no money you sank and died. There was no one to help, no one to pity; all were scrambling109 horribly to save themselves on the shoulders of those below. What a contrast to the calm of that Samoan life, primitive110, kindly111, and religious, in which accursed money was unknown! He was led to declaim hotly on the high breeding and chivalry[246] of these misjudged people, and protested that they had more to teach than to learn. Where, he demanded of the lay brother, could one find such hearts as these? where such brave men and compassionate113 women? where else a land with neither rich nor poor? Here, if one starved, all starved; here, if need be, the last banana was divided into a hundred pieces; here they would all take shame if a single child went hungry.
The old priest went on and on with his tale of Samoan virtue, of Samoan superiority. God had never made such a people; there was in them the seed that would regenerate115 the world. There was nothing in which they did not excel. He carried his reluctant hearer into the mazes116 of native poetry; he repeated hundreds of lines in his resounding117 voice, blowing out clouds of tobacco smoke between each stanza118. Where, he asked, were the whites who could match such things as these; who could bring the tears to your eyes or convulse you with laughter at will? He would repeat that last verse, if his companion did not mind; it described how To, wandering on the sea-shore at dawn, met Tingalau returning from his fishing, and led on to twenty stanzas119 more of what To said to Tingalau, and Tingalau to To!
Michael lay back in his chair, scarce heeding120 the soft gibberish that to him meant nothing. He was living in a tumult121 of his own thoughts—thoughts in which Kanaka poetry had no part, though the priest himself was sometimes present, but whether as a friend or foe122 he could not yet determine; and while he wondered and conjectured123 the old man himself[247] seemed to disappear in his own smoke, until nothing remained of him but a faint, passionate114 buzzing, like that of a bumblebee in a field.
The next day Michael was up and gone before daybreak, and the little service in the church proceeded for once without him. The father was vexed124 at such remissness125, and tolled127 the bell with pious indignation. Was the young man no better than a heathen, thus to scamp God’s morning hour—to attend so grossly to the fleshly needs and let the soul go wanting? Depend upon it, he had not left without something to stay his stomach, though God’s claim on him might wait. The priest turned a cold face to his guest when the latter returned at dusk with the invariable pigeons in his hand. But Michael was too tired to notice these altered looks, nor did he seem concerned when at last his delinquency was pointed128 out to him in no uncertain words. His church, he answered, with mocking defiance129, his church was in the woods, at the foot of a towering banyan130, or in some dim recess131 beside a stream; he knelt when the impulse came to him, like some primitive monk132 wandering with God in the wilds. The priest received this explanation with a dubious133 silence; he was not at all satisfied with its truth, and yet scarcely knew what to reply, feeling himself helpless and outwitted. He was almost glad that the pigeons, still lying on the floor, gave him an obvious excuse to leave the room.
“The chief has done well to-day,” he said to Ngalo, his servant.
The boy laughed.
[248]“Excellency,” he said, “the Helper does not shoot these pigeons. He buys them for sixpences from our people.”
“Excellency,” said the boy, “saving thy presence, the Helper lies. Behold10 in this pigeon the truth of what I say. Does the chief use gravel135 in his gun, like a Samoan, to whom there is no lead?”
“Perhaps he does,” said the priest. “Such a thing had not occurred to me.”
“Perhaps he does not,” exclaimed Ngalo, meaningly. “On Tuesday he bought eight birds of my mother’s brother’s son; one was scented136 and had to be thrown away.”
“Ngalo,” cried the priest, with a sudden change of tone, “is there a woman in this hidden business? Is there gossip in the village?”
Ngalo shook his head.
“He is blameless of such an evil,” he said. “But the village talks continually, and the people ask, ‘What does the Helper in the bush?’”
Father Studby breathed a great sigh of relief.
“He walks about,” he explained, “this way and that, according to the command of the wise doctor in Nukualofa. The peace refreshes him and makes him well. I, too, in my youth, used to wander in the mountains and find consolation137.”
Ngalo’s face showed that he had more to tell.
“The Helper does strange things,” he said. “He goes along, even as you say, through the village and[249] the outlying plantations138 like an uncaring child, with no purpose in what it does. But when he reaches a certain ifi-tree on the land we call Lefoa, behold, all is changed. He stops, he looks about, he listens assiduously like a warrior139 on the outpost. Then he puts his gun in a hidden place, and with it his shot-bottle and his powder-bottle; then he girds up his dress to the knee, and runs into the bush with the swiftness of a dog. When he returns, late in the afternoon, it is with the same quickness until the tree is reached. There he takes breath, composes himself, and with slow steps returns seaward buying what pigeons he can on the road.”
“Well, and what else, Mr. Make-the-News?” demanded the father, as Ngalo hesitated.
“There are those in the village who know nothing,” he went on, “mere worthless heathen of no family, without consideration or land of their own, living meanly like slaves on the bounty140 of others, who say strenuously141, with the persistency142 of barking dogs, that the Helper is under the spell of Saumaiafe!”
The priest stamped his foot with anger. Was that superstition143 never to die? Saumaiafe, the fabled144 witch, who, in the guise145 of a beautiful woman, lured146 men to ruin in the bush! Saumaiafe, that intolerable myth with which he had been combating for more than eighteen years! Saumaiafe!
“Thou art a fool!” he cried. “You are all fools. Sometimes I feel as though I had spent my life in vain. I, too, was a fool to ever think you teachable.”
“Your Excellency is right,” said Ngalo. “It is an[250] unendurable village altogether, and ignorant beyond anything before conceived. Indeed, so weak are men’s hearts in this matter of Saumaiafe and the Helper that none now go into the bush, even those who are distressed147 for bamboo, or for red clay with which to beautify their hair.”
The priest turned away without a word. He was almost inclined to laugh as he went back to the other room, and to tell the lay brother the commotion148 his actions had excited. But the sight of Michael’s face somehow daunted149 him; those suspicious, bloodshot eyes suggested dangers that he was at a loss to name. He remembered the hiding of the gun; the strange deceit about the pigeons; he seemed to see the young man kilting up his cassock and plunging150 furtively151 into the dark forest. What did it all mean? he asked himself again and again. Mercy of God, what did it mean?
That night he slept but little. He tossed on his hot bed, and whether he lay on this side or on that, the same question dinned in his ears without cessation. He was tortured by thoughts of hidden wickedness in the bush; mysteries of evil in rocky defiles153, in caves beside great waterfalls. He rose and went out into the starlight, reproaching himself for his foolishness; and even as he did so, Brother Michael’s even breathing thrilled on his ears like a vindication155. When all was said, what was it that he feared for the young man? What could an old priest fear but the one thing—a woman? And what woman, he asked himself, however dissolute or abandoned, would venture alone into those haunted woods? He could[251] trust superstition to keep the wickedest from such a course. Had he indeed become such an old Kanaka, that even he, Father Studby, was to credit the existence of the witch, roving in her naked beauty, a peril156 to white lay brothers? Perish the thought, so degrading and childish! Assuredly it was not Saumaiafe he had to fear.
He got to bed again, and waited with open eyes for the approach of day. As the cocks began to crow, he heard, with a sudden sinking of the heart, the sound of the lay brother stirring in the next room; heard him dress and go stealthily out, shaking the verandah under his heavy tread.
Mercy of God, what did it all mean?
Morning after morning he asked himself the same question, as the mysterious routine continued with unabated regularity157; and the thought of it haunted him persistently158 throughout the day as he tried to fix his mind on other things. Evening after evening he saw the young man return with his tired face, the pigeons so ambiguously obtained, the gun that had never been fired. They would eat their silent meal together, and then Michael would doze20 in his chair till bedtime. On Sunday, the only day he remained at home, the lay brother resigned himself to the unavoidable services of religion, going with the father to mass, and assisting, by his presence at least, the cause to which they had both pledged their lives. The few hours of his leisure were spent at a little lock-fast desk; and the nature of this correspondence became the second mystery of his singular and baffling life. Once, looking[252] up from his half-written page, he asked the priest how many feet went to a mile. On another occasion he inquired as to the soundings of the bay, and the most likely point for a steamship159 pier160. Steamship piers161, and feet in miles! Miles of what? Whose steamships162, and what was there to bring them? Mercy of God, what did it all mean?
In the beginning, when Father Studby had first begun to suspect he knew not what, to worry, to ask himself importunate163 questions, a way had occurred to him—a way not altogether honourable164 nor dignified—which could not fail to lead to some elucidation165 of the mystery. He had put it behind him with decision, as unworthy of himself and his reputation. What! act the spy and follow the young man? See with his own eyes, from the vantage of some thick fern or bush, the nature of that strange tryst166? No; let him keep his honour, even if curiosity went unsatisfied—even if that same curiosity were not wholly bad, but inspired by a genuine regard for the young brother’s welfare, for which, as the elder of the two, he was in some degree responsible. It was only right to hold out your hand to a sinking man. But could the lay brother be called a sinking man? Ah, if one could be sure of that, how much might be pardoned!
One morning Father Studby could bear it no longer. As the boards creaked in the next room, he, too, rose and dressed himself, trembling as he did so with a sense of guilt167. When the front door at length closed on the lay brother, and his quick step was heard on the path outside, Father Studby found himself on[253] the verandah, looking after him in the dawn. He would have followed; he even took a few steps down the hill. But the folly of such a course was at once apparent. To act the detective, one must one’s self remain undiscovered. Yet how could he hope to elude168 observation and keep on Brother Michael’s heels all through the open village and the wide malae? It was manifestly impossible. In the forest it might be different; yes, in the forest, crouching169 in the thick undergrowth, it would not be so hard to track a man down.
The next night, which happened to be one of a moon almost full, the father lay down ready dressed for a new adventure. A little after one o’clock, he rose, crossed himself, and cautiously quitted the house, making his way through the sleeping village to the path across the swamp. This he followed, slipping on the sodden170 tree-trunks that served as bridges, until he attained172 the farther region of cocoanut, banana, and breadfruit plantations. These were in a choking tangle173 of weeds and lianas; trees thirty feet in height bent174 under their weight of parasites175; others, still higher, were altogether overwhelmed and lost to view in a wall of green; and in the forks of the giant breadfruits orchids176 were sprouting177 like the scabs of some foul178 disease. Keeping with difficulty on the half-obliterated179 track, the priest toiled180 slowly and painfully through this belt of so-called cultivation181, from which, indeed, the village drew no considerable portion of its sustenance182, until at last he reached the welcome shelter of the forest. In contrast to the zone through which he had just emerged, opened by man to the[254] furious energy of the sun, the forest floor itself, densely184 shaded from this fecundating fire, was comparatively open and easy to penetrate43. It was dark, of course, dark as the inside of a well; and the father stopped and lighted the lantern he carried in his hand. He peered about him, blinded by the glare, and uncertain for the first time as to his road. Yes, he had not been misguided; he could trust the instinct of eighteen years to steer185 him through these labyrinths186. Here, indeed, was the ifi-tree of which Ngalo had told him, with its low, spreading foliage187 that had so often concealed188 Michael’s gun. At the thought of the lay brother his heart began to beat, and he crossed himself repeatedly.
He paced off seven, eight, nine, ten yards from the trunk of the ifi; and his feet at that distance carried him into a thicket189 of fern and wild bananas. He blew out the lantern, and settled himself in the damp ambush190 so providentially at hand, drawing the big leaves over his head until he could no longer see the stars. From two o’clock—for such he judged the hour when he first took up his station in the ferns—from two o’clock till five he remained huddled191 in his green lair192, praying at intervals193, and counting the interminable minutes to dawn. With the first peep of day his impatience194 turned no less swiftly into dread195. What had tempted196 him to such madness, such dishonour197? What if he should be discovered in this shameful198 nest, and incontinently revealed to the jeers199 and laughter of the man he thought to track down? What if the lay brother, turning a little aside, should stumble[255] over his cramped200 and aching body? Explain? How could he explain? Mercy of God, what a position for an old religious! He underwent spasms201 of panic; he was of two minds whether or not to rise and run. But the sound of a footstep, of a man’s hoarse202 breathing, of rustling203 branches and snapping twigs204, suddenly brought the heart to his mouth. The wild animal in him was instantly on the defensive205, and he flattened206 himself to the ground.
He lay like a log, not moving so much as an eyelash. He heard the ring of metal as Michael apparently fumbled207 with his gun in the lower branches of the ifi-tree. The shot-flask fell with a crash, and the brother swore—yes, said “damn” audibly, and picked it up. Then there was a silence; an eternity208 of suspense209; then a faint crackling as of parting boughs210. The father peeped out, and saw a black figure disappearing inland; an unmistakable black figure, bent and furtive152, speeding mysteriously through the gloom. He was up and following in a second, half doubled together, like the man he pursued, eager as a bloodhound with his nose to the spoor. The way, with few intermissions, ran steadily211 uphill, up and up, faster and faster, until one’s side seemed to crack and one’s heart to burst. Up and up, with a swing to the right to avoid the splashing waterfalls of the Vaita’i; through groves212 of moso’oi that stifled213 the air with sweetness; under towering maalava-trees that seemed to pierce the very sky.
Would he never stop?
But the lay brother, without once turning, without[256] once stopping either to rest or to look back, plunged214 forward with the certainty of a man who knew his way blindfold215. They were, now, pursued and pursuer, on the high ridge171 between two river valleys; on the one hand was the Vailoloa, a tributary216 of the Vaita’i, on the other the roaring Fuasou, both racing217 tumultuously to the sea. The father wondered how Michael meant to extricate218 himself from such a cul-de-sac, unless (and the thought dashed his hopes to the ground) he intended to assail219 the cloudy slopes of Mount Loamu itself and make a circuit of a dozen miles.
But his question no sooner suggested itself than it was answered. Of a sudden the brother stopped on the edge of the Fuasou ravine, dropped one leg over, then the other, and began to disappear hand over hand by means of a hidden ladder. The priest stood where he was, transfixed with astonishment220. To hurry now seemed unwise. If he had come to ladders he was not improbably near the goal itself. Patience! A breath or two, a moment to cast one’s self full length on the ground and wipe the acrid221 sweat from one’s eyes, and then, having given the lay brother a minute’s start, to descend222 the precipice223 in his wake.
Father Studby approached the brink224 and looked over. Below him, dropping, perhaps, sixteen feet, was a roughly made ladder of bamboo which rested at the bottom on a rocky buttress225 of the cliff. On the edge of that, again, with its splintered ends appearing through the trampled226 undergrowth, was a continuing[257] ladder, the second of a series that dropped, one after another, into the deep defile154. With guarded steps, and after a prolonged deliberation, the priest let himself slowly down ladder number one; down number two; down number three, which ran so long and straight on the open face of the rock that he faltered227, turned dizzy, and had to close his eyes to recover himself; down number four; down number five, at the base of which there descended228 a zigzag229 path to the river. Following this unhesitatingly, with the noise of rushing water in his ears, he emerged at last on a basaltic shelf not six feet above the bed of the Fuasou. From this coign of vantage he gazed about in vain for any sight of Michael, until, on creeping to the very edge of the rock, he ventured to look below. There, immediately beneath him, so close, indeed, that he might have touched him with his hand, was the lay brother himself, busy shovelling230 a bucket full of sand.
“Mercy of God!” exclaimed the priest below his breath; and even as he did so, by that singular telepathy which so often confounds us, Michael lifted his head and looked his pursuer squarely in the face. For an appreciable231 instant the pair challenged each other’s eyes in silence; the lay brother’s were kindling232 and fierce, the priest’s all abashed233, like those of a girl.
“Come down here,” said Michael, peremptorily234. “I have something to tell you.”
“You old interloper,” cried Michael, with a mirthless laugh. “So you are here at last, are you? I[258] have seen it working in your silly old head for weeks. I never looked up but I thought to see your bloody237 boots!”
This unexpected address only served to add to the old man’s confusion. He looked about him helplessly. Such unrestrained language seemed to call for a sharp rebuke238. He was shocked and frightened; as much so as a woman insulted on the street; and yet the consciousness of his own position—that of the detected spy—froze the words of correction on his lips.
“Of course, you want to know what I have been doing here,” continued Michael, in his mocking tone. “If you’ll look into that cradle you will see quick enough. Why, man alive, don’t you know what it is?”
“That’s gold!” cried the lay brother.
The priest hastily withdrew his hand and stared at his companion in consternation240.
Gold!
The priest’s head went round; his heart thumped241 in his breast, with that word everything was forgotten—his shame, his anger, his humiliation242.
“Oh, Michael!” he broke out incoherently. “Oh, Michael!”
“I am taking out about twenty ounces a day,” said the lay brother. “Some days I have touched forty.”
Michael had another cradle ready to hand. It was the first he had made he said, and nothing like so good[259] as the other; but it would do for a day or two until they made a new one—yes, it would do, though a lot of the finer stuff was lost. You did it this way—so—just rocking it like a baby’s cradle; the squares of blanket screened the gold, and you washed them out afterwards in a pan. A place? Oh, anywhere along the stream. It was all rotten with gold.
The priest hurried off, and was soon shaking frantically244 a hundred yards below. He had not been gone an hour when he came hurrying back to where his companion was still at work.
“Look at that!” he cried, holding out a trembling hand. “Oh, Michael, what is it worth?”
“Three or four pounds, perhaps,” said the lay brother, indulgently.
“Mercy of God!” cried the priest, and he was off again at a run.
A little later he came back again. They were watched, he said; he was certain they were watched. He could hardly speak for agitation245. He had heard noises behind him, again, and again, like the laughter of girls in the bush.
But Michael only derided246 his fears. The bush was a creepy place, he said, when you were all alone in it. He had felt the same way himself when he first came, and was eternally peeping over his shoulder and stopping his work to listen. One got used to it after a while; he supposed it must be some kind of a bird.
All day long they worked together in the stream, stopping only at noon for a bite of bread and a pipe. So engrossing247 was the occupation that one seemed[260] never to grow tired; the glittering reward was always a fresh incentive248 to try one’s luck again. Five pounds, four pounds, six pounds, three pounds! One lost all count, and the level of the tobacco-tin in which the golden sand was poured rose and rose in half-inch tides. Father Studby was almost angry when his companion declared it was time to go. He was hurt at such a suggestion; he was disappointed; he almost cried. Michael showed him his watch. Mercy of God, it was past five o’clock! Then he remembered, for the first time, his neglected duties: the morning service, the school, the woman who lay dying in Nofo’s house; the hundred calls, great and small, that kept his day so busy. He wondered at his own unconcern, at his own apathy249 and selfishness. He felt that his contrition250 lacked the proper sting; he asked himself whether, indeed, he cared. He was dizzy with the thought of gold, of cradles and rich pockets, of those bright specks251 that still stuck to his hands. He followed his companion in a sort of dream, silent and triumphant252, trying to fasten on himself a remorse253 that would not come.
“I’ll never forget the first time I got into that valley,” said Michael, on the long road home. “It was the hardest job of my life to follow up that river. I climbed into places that would have scared a sea-faring man; and I was no sooner up one than I would have to risk my life shinning up another, hanging on to lianas and kicking for my life. Tired? Why, I would regularly lie down and gasp—when there was anything big enough to lie on; and the noise of those[261] falls, those that I was on top of, and those that were still to come—my word! it made me sick to hear them. And when I at last got into the place, and sat down by a big pool, and saw the black sand with the shrimps254 wriggling255 in it, I simply said to myself, as quiet as that: ‘Here’s gold.’”
When they reached home Michael called loudly for brandy. The priest himself was glad of a little after that day of days; placer-mining was a new experience, even to that veteran of labour, and he felt extraordinarily stiff and tired. He remembered with contrition how often in the past he had grudged256 his companion the stimulant257, and he now blushed for those trivial economies with a hot sense of impatience. Could he not take out in a day what they represented in a twelvemonth? With a new-found sense of freedom, he helped himself again to the bottle, and, for once in his frugal life, did not measure the allowance with his thumb. Then Michael, with an elaborate pantomime of secrecy258, beckoned259 him into the other room, and, after shutting and bolting the door, threw open the top of his trunk. Beneath the rumpled260 heap of clothes there were a dozen tin cans of all shapes, some with their own original covers, others capped with packing-paper like pots of jam. The lay brother opened them one by one, lovingly, exultingly261, his face shining with satisfaction. Each was filled to the brim with coarse gold-dust; each weighed down the hand like an ingot.
“Take one, father,” said Michael. “It is a little enough return for all your kindness.”
[262]The priest trembled and drew back.
“No, no!” he cried.
“As you like,” said Michael, with a tone of affected262 indifference. “You will be doing as well yourself in a few days.”
“God help me!” exclaimed the priest, and buried his face in his hands.
The lay brother looked down at him strangely and said nothing. He knew something of the hidden conflict at that moment raging in the old man’s breast, and he had too much at stake himself to venture an incautious word. Everything depended now upon the priest, for good or evil; it lay with him to keep the secret inviolate263, or to spread it to all the world; to accept the partnership264 thus tacitly offered, and allow them both to reap a colossal265 harvest; or, standing266 coldly on the letter of his vows267, to open the door to a rush of thousands. The brother held his breath and waited for that supreme268 decision on which so much depended; he was afraid to speak, afraid even to move, as he looked down at his companion in a fever of suspense. The intolerable silence weighed upon him like a nightmare. He felt that it was the enemy of all his hopes; that every minute of it increased the hazard of his fortunes; that he was being tried, that he was being condemned.
“Father,” he broke out, “your name need not appear in this; you need do nothing but hold your tongue; you can be my partner without a soul to know it. As God sees me, I will divide with you to the last penny.”
[263]The old man lifted his head.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said.
“It’s just this,” said Michael, regaining269 a little confidence. “If you spread the news broadcast—and the merest whisper will do that—you will get nothing at all and I will get no more than a beggarly claim. Keep it to ourselves and we shall share tens of thousands of pounds.”
“I am a Marist priest,” said Father Studby. “I am a missionary. I am an old man nearing the end of my days. My vows prevent me from withholding270 any property from my Order. I should be acting271 dishonourably in entering into such an enterprise. I have no right to gain money for myself.”
“Who is asking you to keep it for yourself?” demanded Michael. “What prevents you giving your Order every ounce that falls to your share? Do you really think Monseigneur would find fault if you brought him a check for a hundred thousand pounds? And I don’t even ask you to keep silence for ever. In six months, or a year, or whatever it is,—when the proper time comes,—you can make a clean breast of it. Of course, if you choose the other thing, your Order will get nothing, and somehow I don’t think they will be as pleased as you seem to think. Why, man, think what the money would do for the cathedral! They could build the new mission-house to-morrow. And remember for one moment what you could do here!”
“No,” said the father, “you have put the matter in a new light. I should fail in my duty if I let this[264] money go from us. They would be right to reproach me if I let the chance slip. I fear I was thinking more of myself than of them.”
After supper they drew out their chairs on the moonlit verandah, and sat for a while in silence. The priest was conscious, amid the uneasy preoccupation that settled on him like a cloud, that in some manner their relative positions had changed. The masterful young man, by reason of his great discovery, on the strength, perhaps, of his more vigorous and determined272 will, seemed now to arrogate273 to himself the right to lead. It appeared natural to Father Studby to acquiesce274 in this; to subordinate himself to his companion and wait timidly for him first to speak; even to feel a kind of gratitude275 for the partnership that caused him such qualms276. Self-effacing and humble277, it came easy to him to sink to a second place and accept unquestioningly the orders of a superior. Besides, what did he know of gold?
“The first thing we must consider,” began Michael, “the first, because it is the most important, is the land. It must all be ours, from the sea to the mountain-tops, from one end of the bay to the other. In a small way I have been already moving in the matter. I have taken options from Maunga, Leapai, and George Tuimaleali’ifano, the three principal chiefs here, for what seems to cover more than the area of the group. I paid them out of hand about twenty dollars each; but the options, to make them good, will call for twenty-eight thousand dollars in Chile money. Oh, it’s all perfectly278 right and legal,” he broke out, forestalling[265] an objection he saw on his companion’s lips. “I had the forms drawn279 up in Nukualofa by a lawyer; it cost me three pounds to do it. The only point is how much of the land really belongs to these chiefs, for there are bound to be half a hundred other claimants whose consent will be needed to make the title good; and it will be your part to ferret them out. What you must bear in mind most is that we must nail every inch of the beach. There will be a city here in a month after the news is out; in a year there will be tramways, and newspapers, and brick banks and churches, and wharves280 with ships discharging. Don’t you see, we must have our fist in all that; we must have the lion’s share; every pound the others bring must pay us toll126.”
“The others!” cried the priest. “Mercy of God, let us keep the thing to ourselves!”
“We couldn’t, if we would,” cried the lay brother. “You might as well try and hide the island as to keep them out. When I was a boy I was in the Kattabelong gold rush with my father, and I know what I am talking about. They rose up like waves in the sea—waves and waves of men, bursting in with yells like an invading army. Why, it won’t be any time before we are holding our valley with a line of rifles; you will see all hell loose and a thousand devils landing at a time; you will see the horizon black with steamer smoke, bringing in thousands more; you will see men killed and their bodies rotting in the sun. That’s the first stage of a gold rush—the pioneer stage, the stage of murder and crime, of might for[266] right. That will be the time for us to live through as best we can. Bit by bit there comes a subsidence into a kind of order. There is a rally of the better sort; the inevitable281 leader rises to the top. You walk out one morning, and you run across Billy This, the terror of the camp, swaying peacefully at the end of a rope. At another turn it is Tommy That, with his toes turned up and a ticket on his breast. The third period is the arrival of an official with a tin office and blank forms. Who owns the land here? Why, we do. Who claims that? Why, we claim it. Who owns the beach from a point beginning at such and such a place, to a point marked B on the new official map? We again! Who owns the mountain lakes they talk already of tapping for the water-supply? We do. Who owns everything in sight? The same old firm, if you please, sir. But I am not saying we can hold the fort single-handed. God never made the two men that could. But this is what we do. We grant titles, concessions282, half and quarter interests to men of the right stamp, and make them our partners against the mob. We take the money they bring, and reserve a substantial profit in their future undertakings283. As I said before, we must have our fist in every pocket.”
Michael paused and slowly filled a second pipe. The father remained silent, his head resting on his trembling hand. He was staring into vacancy284, seeing through his half-shut eyes a myriad285 of changing pictures.
“Michael,” he said, “have you ever thought how it will be with our people?”
[267]“Oh, the Kanakas!” said the lay brother.
“Yes, the Samoans,” said Father Studby. “What is to become of them, Michael?”
“They will go,” said the young man, coolly, “where the inferior race always goes in a gold rush. They will go to the devil.”
“Oh, Michael,” exclaimed the priest, “I cannot bear to think of them!”
“I am sure I am sorry, too,” said the lay brother. “But there is no use blinking our eyes to facts, or feeling miserable286 about what can’t be helped. The men must learn to work like other people, and I look to you, with your influence here, to line them up on the right side. Fifty or sixty of them would be worth everything to us at the start. As for the nigger women, if they are young and pretty, I dare say a use can be found for them, too. I am sorry, but what can you do? You can’t put back the clock, old fellow.”
“I wish you had never found the gold!” he cried out passionately288.
“Well, it is too late now,” said Michael.
The next day the old man was up at the first peep of dawn. He had not slept all night, but had lain with open eyes, in a fever of horror and remorse. He walked down to the village and along the sandy beach, and sat miserably289 for an hour on the bottom of an upturned canoe. One by one, he saw the beehive houses awaken290; he saw the polas rise, disclosing dark interiors and smoking lamps; he heard the pāté, that[268] most primitive of human signals, rousing the sluggards to another day, its insistent291 tapping the prelude292 to the morning prayer which rose here and there as each household assembled its members. Grave old chiefs appeared at the eaves, yawned, gazed at the sun, and exchanged ceremonious greetings; children trooped out sleepily to play; half-grown girls tripped away for water, or sat on logs or strips of matting, in twos and threes, staring out to sea. An imperious old chief began to blow a conch-shell bigger than his head. Bu, bu, bu! it sounded, rich and mellow293, with faint reëchoings on the woody hills. The young men assembled about him, laughing and shouting, and taking up the note of the conch in a lusty chorus as they called out the names of those still to come. The father remembered that they were to launch the new alia, the huge double canoe, which belonged in common to all Lauli’i.
He looked about him mournfully; he felt himself a traitor294 through and through; he dropped his eyes as every one saluted295 him and the little children ran up to kiss his hands. He was about to sweep this all away, this life of simplicity296, peace, and beauty; he was going to enslave these stalwart men; he was going to give these women to degradation297. Under the scorching298 breath of what was called civilisation they would wither299 and die. God help them! On the ground where those houses now stood there would rise the brick banks and churches of which Michael had spoken; offices, stock exchanges, theatres, and roaring bars; dance-halls full of shameless women, and dens183 where[269] men would be drugged and robbed. And what was he to gain for it all? What was the price for so much sin and misery300? Wealth for his Order! The biggest account in that brick bank, blocks of bonds and shares, sheafs of mortgages! Good God, how had he dared set his hand to such an infamy301! And if, by way of penance302, he were to build a church, the great church of which he had dreamed, with lofty windows of stained glass, and an organ that would shake the very ground, and bells tempered with hundredweights of silver, who, indeed, would there be left to worship in it? What had gold-seekers to do with Christ, with God, with the Blessed Virgin303? There might appear, perhaps, a few brown faces, changed and heartbroken, a few shrinking figures in the rags of the disinherited, who would appeal to him for comfort in their extremity304. Ah, how could he look at them, these that he had wronged?
Mercy of God, let the accursed gold lie undug!
In an agony of self-denunciation, he walked hither and thither305, without looking, without caring where he went, treading the phantom306 streets of that city of his dreams. He talked aloud and gesticulated to himself; he knelt at the foot of a palm and prayed; he was overwhelmed by his own powerlessness in the face of that impending307 calamity308. He could see no help, he could find no solace309. And yet, all the while he felt, with an intense conviction that belied310 the supplicating311 words on his lips, that it lay with him, and him alone, to save his people. Thus writhing312 in the coil of his perplexities, despairing and half mad at the unavertible[270] ruin he knew no way to avoid, he suddenly found himself at his own door, confronting the man who had brought them all to such a pass.
“My word, father!” cried Michael, “you don’t look fit for another day up there. Why, if you could see your face in the glass it would give you the shakes; you ought to be in bed.”
He would have passed on, but the priest caught him by the arm.
“Michael,” he broke out, “Michael, stop and listen to me. I have something important to tell you—something that must be said, however little you may like to hear it. I—I find I cannot permit this to go any further.”
The lay brother stopped short.
“You cannot permit what?” he demanded.
“This digging of gold,” cried the priest; “this crime we have in mind against these people, this crime against ourselves. Do you count our vows for nothing, our holy vocation, the fact that God has set us apart to guard the flocks he has confided313 to us? Fall on your knees, miserable boy, and beg His pardon for your impiety—here, even as I have done; down, down with you!” The old priest’s voice rose to a scream; he wound his skinny arms round his companion, and calling on the saints for help, tried to force him to the earth.
The lay brother grew suddenly pale, and, with a violent movement, shook himself free.
“You old fool!” he exclaimed. “Keep your dirty hands off me, I tell you. Leave me alone.”
[271]“I forbid you to take another step,” cried the priest. “In the name of God I forbid you.”
“See here,” said Michael, somewhat recovering himself, “I don’t want to quarrel with you. I would rather cut off my right hand than quarrel with you. I need you; and if you only had the sense to see it, you would know that you need me. It would be a rotten business if we ruined each other.”
“Why can’t you take the gold you have, and go?” exclaimed the father. “Leave the island and content yourself that you have got a competence314. It is more already than you could have gained by a lifetime of honest work.”
“I mean to stay just where I am,” returned the lay brother, “regardless of whether you like it or don’t like it; I mean to stand by all my rights, with you if I can, without you if I must. You can do me lots of harm, and skim no end of cream off my milk; though I don’t think you have much to gain by doing it, or that the niggers you are so fond of will be greatly benefited. You have every reason to stand in with me, both for your sake and theirs; and if the money cuts no figure with you, you can surely see the sense of having some say in the subsequent developments. That’s all I have time for now, though if you are more in your right mind by evening I won’t mind talking it over with you again.”
With that last word Michael passed on, with an air of assurance implying that all would come right. The old priest remained standing in the path, sullenly315 looking after him; and he remained long in that[272] attitude, even after the brother’s black figure had dwindled316 and disappeared into the distance. He felt utterly317 baffled, utterly conquered; he wondered whether he had any more resistance in him; he asked himself if God had forsaken318 him.
What was there now left for him to do, helpless and despairing as he was, but to wait with what patience he might for the concluding tragedy? After all, his own soul was clean; except for the one day, when, in the exultation319 of the discovery, in the madness that had temporarily possessed320 him, he had soiled his hands with the accursed thing. He remembered, with self-disdain, how he had accepted the partnership held out to him; how he had been dazzled, cajoled, swept altogether off his feet by the importunity321 of the devil. But that was all done with now. He would have none of the blood-money; if the knell322 had sounded for his people, he at least would not profit by their ruin, he at least would not transmute323 their agony into gold. The others could do that; Michael and his white savages324; the hosts that were to come. Had the young man no conscience, no compassion112? Was he simply a wall of selfishness, against which one might beat in vain? Oh, the hypocrite, the months he had lived a lie! Oh, the remorseless devil and his gold! How could God endure such things? A man like that ought to be struck down by thunderbolts; people ought to kill him like a mad dog.
The thought made him tremble. If Michael were dead, who would ever know about the gold? Had it not lain there all these years, latently evil in the earth,[273] no one dreaming of its existence? Why should it not continue to lie for ever, powerless for all mischief325, or until such a time, perhaps, when men would no longer count it a thing of price; when it would be relegated326 to museums for the curious to stare at, side by side with the wampum of Indians, cowry-shells, and the white beards that pass for money in the Marquesas. Ah, were it not for Michael!
His hands shook and he began to pant for breath. Were it not better that one should suffer than the many? one rather than a thousand? one rather than a whole race, with countless327 generations yet unborn? He looked down on the roofs of the village, a sight endeared to him by the recollections of so many years; he saw, in the brilliant sunshine, amid the houses that had sheltered them in life, the mossy tombs he knew so well. There, under the shadow, lay Soalu, his first friend; there, the black-browed Puluaoao, the heathen, the libertine328, who had first thwarted329 and then had loved him; there, the earth that covered Lala’ai, in whose bright eyes he had looked once and never dared to look again, whose memory was still as sweet to him as on the day she died; there lay To, the silver-tongued; Silei, the poet; Lapongi, the muaau, with a dozen bullets through his headless corpse107; Faamuina, Tupua, Sisimaile—how many there were! He had loved those honest hearts now mouldering in the grave; to some he had given messages to carry beyond the unknown river to those dark comrades who had already gone. He loved their children, now men and women, who had been held out to him[274] by dying arms, and whom he had led crying from the house of bereavement330 to comfort as best he could. For nigh twenty years he had been the ruler and lawgiver of the bay, the trusted adviser331 of great chiefs, the faithful priest, the ever-welcome friend. Should he desert his people now?
He went into the cook-house, where Ngalo was sitting on the steps playing hymns332 on his mouth-organ.
“Ngalo,” he said, “I want your rifle and some cartridges333.”
The boy looked up at his master’s face with astonishment,—the ways of whites were past all understanding,—and it was not until he was asked a second time that he rose and sought his gun.
The priest tried to say something by way of explanation, but the words would not come. He could do nothing but take the gun in silence, and charge the magazine with an unsteady hand, while the boy’s eyes grew bigger and bigger.
“Doubtless your Excellency has seen a wild cow in the bush?” Ngalo at length inquired.
The father nodded and turned to go.
“Blessed be the hunting!” cried the boy after him from the door, before resuming the strains of “There’s a land that is fairer than day.”
“Blessed be the home-stayers,” returned the priest, with conventional politeness.
At last he was at the place—at the foot of the second ladder, on the narrow ledge41 that overlooked the[275] third. He scarcely knew why he had been led to choose this spot, for the top would surely have done as well. But the ladder there was shorter, and a desperate man might let himself drop below, or rush up like lightning before one could pull a second trigger. The third ladder was immensely long; Michael himself had once said that it was sixty feet or more; in the middle of it a man was helpless. If he fell it would be to smash to pieces on the rocks beneath; if he elected to climb, it would be in the face of a dozen bullets.
He threw himself on the ground, and sat cross-legged, with the rifle resting in his lap. He was haunted by a dread that the lay brother might still outwit him; that he might burst on him from behind with a mocking laugh; or dart334 up unexpectedly from the very edge of the cliff. He wondered how Michael would look with a bullet through his face. He remembered such a wound in the Talavao war, when he had helped to bury the killed; and the thought of it made him shudder335. He tried to pray, but the words froze on his lips. What had a murderer to do with prayer? But he was not yet a murderer—not yet. There was still time to draw back; there was still time to save his soul from everlasting336 hell. How dared he hesitate when all eternity was at stake? He was shocked at himself, at his own resolution, at his own courage and steadfastness337. He meant to kill the lay brother, even if the skies were to fall. He was there to make a sublime338 sacrifice for the sake of those he loved. Let hell do its worst. He would say between the torments339: “I[276] saved them! I saved them!” His only dread was that his hand might tremble on the trigger; that at the supreme moment he might flinch340 and fail; that he might throw his weapon from him in uncontrollable horror.
Hark! what was that? Mercy of God, what was that?
He peeped stealthily over the edge.
Michael was standing at the foot of the ladder.
The priest felt a sudden sinking in the region of the stomach. Something seemed to say to him: “But that’s flesh and blood; that’s a man!” He would have given worlds to have dispossessed himself of the rifle; lies and explanations crowded to his lips; his teeth chattered341 in his head. Then, as he cowered342 impotently to the ground, the ladder shook with the weight of Michael’s feet on the lowest rung.
He tried to pull himself together; but under the stress of that overwhelming agitation the mechanical part of him seemed to stop. He had to tell himself to breathe; his heart suffocated343 within his breast. He gasped344 like a drowning man, drawing in the air with great, tremulous sighs as his choking throat relaxed. Suddenly he ceased altogether to be himself; he became a phantom in a dream; a twitching345, crazy creature whom he saw through a sort of mist, dizzily centred in a whirl of forest and sky.
He looked over and saw that Michael was more than half-way up. The lay brother’s whole body spoke of dejection and fatigue346, of a long day’s work not yet ended, and it was evident that the heavy[277] can slung347 from his neck was for once more of a burden than a satisfaction. He raised his weary eyes, and with a kind of a shock encountered those of Father Studby peering down at him from above. He cried out inarticulately, and began to redouble his exertions348, smiling and panting as he did so.
Still as in a dream, the priest leaned boldly over the precipice, and dropped the point of his rifle until its farther sight was dancing across the lay brother’s face, which, in swift gradations, underwent the whole gamut349 of dismay, astonishment, and utter stupefaction. For an instant Michael faltered and hung back; he even slunk down a step, speechless and as white as death. Then, of a sudden, he broke out into shrill350 peals351 of laughter, followed by a torrent352 of gabble, brisk, friendly, and tremblingly insincere, such as one might address to a madman from whom it is dangerous to run. He had struck a new place, he cried. My word! there was no end to it—pockets upon pockets only waiting to be washed out. It was at the fifth waterfall, not far from the dam by the banyan-tree, and he had worked there all day with extraordinary success. The other place was good enough, to be sure, with its average of three pounds and more, but this at the fifth waterfall was the real McKay. The father must positively353 come down and see it at once; positively you could see the nuggets shining in every spadeful; no matter if it were late, the father must come. He had better leave his gun on the top, for who was there to touch it?
Father Studby never turned from his position, nor[278] made the least pretence354 of answering the breathless patter with which the brother tried to shield himself. Like a rock he waited, while the miserable man below him, sweating with fear, moved slowly into point-blank range. Talk as he might, with a volubility that grew increasingly anxious and incoherent, Michael realised at last that his time had come. He stopped; he raised his hand convulsively; he cried out in a broken voice: “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t kill me!”
Even as he did so, the father pulled the trigger.
Then he turned, reclimbed the ladders, and went home.
That night the priest went outside the reef in his canoe, and emptied Michael’s store of gold-dust into the sea, scattering355 it like seed on the ocean floor at a point where the tide ran swiftest. On his return, with a cunning that seemed to him the inspiration of the devil, he got out the lay brother’s spare hat and some of the clothes that were in his chest, and left them, to tell their own tale, on the sandy beach. At dawn he made his way back to the valley, still sustained, in spite of all his fatigue, by a consuming fire of activity. He felt that the sands of his own life were running out; that at any moment he might be struck down himself by an unseen hand; that those strange, benumbing premonitions in his brain bade him imperiously to close the chapter of his crime. The horror of dying with his purpose unfulfilled spurred him on to desperate exertions. He stumbled again and again on the path; he had recurring356 fits of giddiness, when[279] the sun seemed darkened to his eyes, when for a space he half forgot his dreadful errand, and wondered to find himself in the bush. He expected, when he reached the brink of the cliff and began to descend the long, shaky ladders, to feel some recrudescence of the emotions of the day before. But, to his own surprise, he discovered in himself a callousness357 that set all such qualms at defiance; he had exhausted358, in the course of those last forty hours, all his capacity for such paralysing susceptibilities; like some soldier after the battle, he was sated with the horrors through which he had passed, and had become altogether deadened to those about him. Even when he stood on the very place from which Michael had made his last appeal, and, looking in the air above, more than half expected to see the protruding359 muzzle360 of another rifle, he felt, indeed, no answering thrill or perturbation. The burden of his own fatigue seemed of greater moment than this reliving of a tragedy; and the thought of how much there was for him still to do moved him infinitely361 more.
At the foot of the ladder, shrunken and disordered, the corpse of the dead brother lay tumbled in the grass like a sack. With his face upturned to the sky, his sightless eyes, filming with corruption362, his tangled363 hair in a slime of blood and dirt, he opposed a ghastly barrier to the old priest’s further progress; and seemed, even in death itself, to continue to resist and defy him. But the father had passed the stage when such a sight could turn him back, though he faltered for a moment in the throes of an unconquerable disgust[280] before daring at last to set his foot across the body. Even when he did so, driving off the swarming364 flies with both his hands, it was with an agony of precaution against the least contact with that dead flesh.
Descending into the valley, he drew together all the tell-tale evidences of their work below, the cradles, picks, and shovels365, the tins and boxes and ends of boards and scantlings, which had been carried, at one time and another, into that secluded place, and buried them in one of the deepest holes along the stream. He broke down the dams that Michael had spent days in building, the stones that had been piled aside to uncover the ground of some new pocket, the rough shelters he had raised here and there against the sun; he obliterated with his knife the marks that had been blazed upon the trees, and searched everywhere, with a feverish366 pertinacity367 that took him again and again over the same ground, for the least detail that he might have overlooked.
Then, in a drip of sweat, and exhausted to such a pitch that he wondered whether he should ever leave the valley alive, he took the spade he had kept by him to the last, and mounted the bottom ladder. As he went he cut away the lashings that bound it to the rock, and from the top sent it headlong behind him. In the same manner, resting painfully at each stopping-place, he detached the second ladder and the third, arriving once more at the wide shelf where he had meant to dig the grave. But his little strength suddenly forsook368 him; he was overcome by a deadly nausea369; he could hardly stand, much less dig. He[281] cast the spade into a thicket, and with unflinching resolution detached the can of gold-dust from the dead man’s neck. That, at least, should not remain to tell its tale, and he let the stuff dribble370 through his fingers over the cliff.
To do more was impossible. His only thought now was to escape; to climb up into the fresher air above; to save himself while there was yet time. That unmoving, silent thing in the grass, obscurely dissolving into decay, must perforce be left as it was, to bear its horrible witness against him. The declining margin371 of his strength filled him with a frenzy of fear that if he waited overlong he might wait for ever. Between the two risks, the one of a possible detection, the other of a doom372 unspeakable, he did not venture to pause. He felt, indeed, an extraordinary sense of relief as he began, rung by rung, to rise above the narrow ledge; and with relief a strange fatalism, in which it seemed to him that everything had been predestined from the beginning of the world. As he clung to the ladder, overcome at times by spells of faintness which he knew might bring him to the point of letting go his hold, he was always sustained by the thought that the issue lay with destiny. He would live, or he would fall, as it had been written.
In this singular humour, in which all human responsibility for good or evil seemed to count for nothing, the priest continued to mount the steep face of the cliff. He rested at every second step; he struggled against the recurring fits of giddiness that threatened to dash him from his perch374; he fought his way up[282] inch by inch, wondering all the time with a grim composure whether or not he was ever destined373 to reach the top. When at last he drew himself into a coign of safety and sent the great ladder crashing in his wake, when at last he put his foot on the final goal and lay down beneath the trees, then it was that he began to realise the perils375 to which he had so nearly succumbed376, and to quake with a thousand belated apprehensions377.
For an hour he remained huddled in the grass, starting at every sound, and altogether daunted by the thought of returning to the village. How would he dare encounter those familiar faces, take up the threads of the old familiar life, endure those awful days to come when the mystery of Michael’s disappearance378 would be in every mouth? Could he trust himself to simulate the concern he was bound to show, the surprise, the alarm, the increasing astonishment and horror as the days passed and there would be still no news of the missing man? Ah, could he trust himself? Had he in him the power to live such a lie, to go as usual about his duties, to hear the confessions379 of others when his own tortured heart was so dark with guilt?
When, with faltering380 steps, he at length reached the village, it was to find the whole place in a tumult. Every canoe was afloat; a couple of whale-boats were scouring381 the outer bay; and the malae, usually so deserted382 on a hot afternoon, was overrun by an excited throng383. Had he not, then, heard the news?[283] It was thought that the Helper had been drowned that morning, and the boats were now searching for his body! Behold, here were the unfortunate’s clothes, found even as they were, and by order of the chief left untouched for the priest himself to see; here, too, was old Lefao, the shrill mother of Pa’a, who had seen the young man go in to his death, and had heard his sinking cry. “Lefao, make for his Excellency a repetition of that mournful sound, and show how he cast up his arms as thou watchedst him from the beach.” The old impostor was enjoying all the importance of having such a tale to tell, and the father winced384 under a pang385 of shame as he listened to this unexpected confederate.
It was afterwards thought that the sad affair must have unhinged Father Studby’s mind, for he subsequently began to show symptoms of serious mental disturbance386, which culminated387 a few months later in his tragic388 suicide. A marble pillar, the outcome of a public subscription389 in Sydney, was raised to the memory of these two martyrs390 of the cross. In faded letters, beneath their crumbling391 names, one can still spell out the lies:
IN LIFE THEY WERE TOGETHER;
IN DEATH THEY WERE NOT DIVIDED.
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1
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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dinned
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| vt.喧闹（din的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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consuls
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| 领事( consul的名词复数 )； （古罗马共和国时期）执政官 （古罗马共和国及其军队的最高首长，同时共有两位，每年选举一次） | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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12
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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15
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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16
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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ration
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| n.定量(pl.)给养，口粮；vt.定量供应 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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30
scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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34
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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38
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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39
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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40
hieroglyphs
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| n.象形字（如古埃及等所用的）( hieroglyph的名词复数 )；秘密的或另有含意的书写符号 | |
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41
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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42
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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43
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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44
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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45
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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46
astound
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| v.使震惊，使大吃一惊 | |
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47
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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48
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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49
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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50
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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51
pundit
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| n.博学之人；权威 | |
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52
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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53
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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54
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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55
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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56
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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57
disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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58
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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59
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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60
taro
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| n.芋，芋头 | |
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61
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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62
abstemious
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| adj.有节制的，节俭的 | |
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63
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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64
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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66
sardines
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| n. 沙丁鱼 | |
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67
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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68
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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69
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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70
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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71
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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72
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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73
intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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74
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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75
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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76
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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77
dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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78
larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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79
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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80
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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81
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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82
hygiene
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| n.健康法，卫生学 （a.hygienic） | |
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83
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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84
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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85
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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86
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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87
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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88
pitfall
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| n.隐患，易犯的错误；陷阱，圈套 | |
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89
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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90
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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91
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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92
autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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93
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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94
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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95
pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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96
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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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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98
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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99
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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100
vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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101
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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102
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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103
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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104
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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105
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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106
obliterating
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| v.除去( obliterate的现在分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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107
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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108
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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109
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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110
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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111
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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112
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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113
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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114
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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115
regenerate
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| vt.使恢复，使新生；vi.恢复，再生；adj.恢复的 | |
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116
mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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117
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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118
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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119
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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120
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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121
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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122
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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123
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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125
remissness
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| n.玩忽职守；马虎；怠慢；不小心 | |
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126
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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127
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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128
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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129
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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130
banyan
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| n.菩提树，榕树 | |
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131
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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132
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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133
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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134
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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135
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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136
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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137
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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138
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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139
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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140
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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141
strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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142
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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143
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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144
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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145
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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146
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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147
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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148
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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149
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
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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151
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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152
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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153
defiles
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| v.玷污( defile的第三人称单数 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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154
defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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155
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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156
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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157
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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158
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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159
steamship
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| n.汽船，轮船 | |
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160
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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161
piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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162
steamships
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| n.汽船，大轮船( steamship的名词复数 ) | |
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163
importunate
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|
| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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164
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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165
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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166
tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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167
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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168
elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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169
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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170
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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171
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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172
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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173
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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174
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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175
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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176
orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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177
sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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178
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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179
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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180
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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181
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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182
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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183
dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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184
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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185
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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186
labyrinths
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| 迷宫( labyrinth的名词复数 )； （文字，建筑）错综复杂的 | |
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187
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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188
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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189
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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190
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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191
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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192
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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193
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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194
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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195
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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196
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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197
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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198
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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199
jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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200
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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201
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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202
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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203
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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204
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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205
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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206
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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207
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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208
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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209
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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210
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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211
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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212
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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213
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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214
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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215
blindfold
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| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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216
tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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217
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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218
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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219
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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220
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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221
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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222
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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223
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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224
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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225
buttress
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| n.支撑物；v.支持 | |
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226
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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227
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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228
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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229
zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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230
shovelling
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| v.铲子( shovel的现在分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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231
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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232
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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233
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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234
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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235
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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236
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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237
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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238
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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239
sediment
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| n.沉淀，沉渣，沉积(物) | |
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240
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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241
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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242
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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243
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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244
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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245
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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246
derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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247
engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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248
incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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249
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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250
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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251
specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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252
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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253
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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254
shrimps
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| n.虾，小虾( shrimp的名词复数 )；矮小的人 | |
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255
wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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256
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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257
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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258
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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259
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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260
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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261
exultingly
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| 兴高采烈地，得意地 | |
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262
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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263
inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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264
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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265
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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266
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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267
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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268
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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269
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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270
withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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271
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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272
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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273
arrogate
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| v.冒称具有...权利，霸占 | |
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274
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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275
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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276
qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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277
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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278
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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279
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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280
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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281
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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282
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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283
undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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284
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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285
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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286
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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287
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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288
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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289
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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290
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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291
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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292
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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293
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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294
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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295
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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296
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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297
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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298
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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299
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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300
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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301
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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302
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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303
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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304
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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305
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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306
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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307
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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308
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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309
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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310
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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311
supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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312
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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313
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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314
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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315
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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316
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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317
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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318
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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319
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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320
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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321
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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322
knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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323
transmute
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| vt.使变化，使改变 | |
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324
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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325
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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326
relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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327
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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328
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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329
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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330
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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331
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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332
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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333
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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334
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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335
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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336
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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337
steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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338
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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339
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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340
flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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341
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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342
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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343
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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344
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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345
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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346
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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347
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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348
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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349
gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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350
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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351
peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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352
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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353
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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354
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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355
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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356
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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357
callousness
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358
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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359
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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360
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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361
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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362
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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363
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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364
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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365
shovels
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| n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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366
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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367
pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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368
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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369
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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370
dribble
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| v.点滴留下，流口水；n.口水 | |
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371
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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372
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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373
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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374
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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375
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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376
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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377
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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378
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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379
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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380
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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381
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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382
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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383
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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384
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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385
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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386
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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387
culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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388
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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389
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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390
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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391
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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