When Father Damon parted from Edith he seemed to himself strengthened in his spirit. His momentary1 outburst had shown him where he stood-the strength of his fearful temptation. To see it was to be able to conquer it. He would humiliate2 himself; he would scourge3 himself; he would fast and pray; he would throw himself more unreservedly into the service of his Master. He had been too compromising with sin and sinners, and with his own weakness and sin, the worst of all.
The priest walked swiftly through the wintry streets, welcoming as a sort of penance4 the biting frost which burned his face and penetrated5 his garments. He little heeded6 the passers in the streets, those who hurried or those who loitered, only, if he met or passed a woman or a group of girls, he instinctively7 drew himself away and walked more rapidly. He strode on uncompromisingly, and his clean-shaved face was set in rigid9 lines. Those who saw him pass would have said that there went an ascetic10 bent11 on judgment12. Many who did know him, and who ordinarily would have saluted13 him, sure of a friendly greeting, were repelled14 by his stern face and determined15 air, and made no sign. The father had something on his mind.
As he turned into Rivington Street there approached him from the opposite direction a girl, walking slowly and undecidedly. When he came near her she looked up, with an appealing recognition. In a flash of the quick passing he thought he knew her--a girl who had attended his mission and whom he had not seen for several months-but he made no sign and passed on.
"Father Damon!"
He turned about short at the sound of the weak, pleading voice, but with no relaxation16 of his severe, introverted mood. "Well?"
It was the girl he remembered. She wore a dress of silk that had once been fine, and over it an ample cloak that had quite lost its freshness, and a hat still gay with cheap flowers. Her face, which had a sweet and almost innocent expression, was drawn17 and anxious. The eyes were those of a troubled and hunted animal.
"I thought," she said, hesitatingly, "you didn't know me."
"Yes, I know you. Why haven18't you been at the mission lately?"
"I couldn't come. I--"
"I'm afraid you have fallen into bad ways."
She did not answer immediately. She looked away, and, still avoiding his gaze, said, timidly: "I thought I would tell you, Father Damon, that I'm--that I'm in trouble. I don't know what to do."
"Have you repented20 of your sin?" asked he, with a little softening21 of his tone. "Did you want to come to me for help?"
"He's deserted23 me," said the girl, looking down, absorbed in her own misery24, and not heeding25 his question.
"Ah, so that is what you are sorry for?" The severe, reproving tone had come back to his voice.
"And they don't want me in the shop any more."
The priest hesitated. Was he always to preach against sin, to strive to extirpate26 it, and yet always to make it easy for the sinner? This girl must realize her guilt27 before he could do her any good. "Are you sorry for what you have done?"
"Yes, I'm sorry," she replied. Wasn't to be in deep trouble to be sorry? And then she looked up, and continued with the thought in her mind, "I didn't know who else to go to."
"Well, my child, if you are sorry, and want to lead a different life, come to me at the mission and I will try to help you."
The priest, with a not unkindly good-by, passed on. The girl stood a moment irresolute28, and then went on her way heavily and despondent29. What good would it do her to go to the mission now?
Three days later Dr. Leigh was waiting at the mission chapel30 to speak with the rector after the vesper service. He came out pale and weary, and the doctor hesitated to make known her errand when she saw how exhausted31 he was.
"Did you wish me for anything?" he asked, after the rather forced greeting.
"If you feel able. There is a girl at the Woman's Hospital who wants to see you."
"Who is it?"
"It is the girl you saw on the street the other afternoon; she said she had spoken to you."
"She promised to come to the mission."
"She couldn't. I met the poor thing the same afternoon. She looked so aimless and forlorn that, though I did not remember her at first, I thought she might be ill, and spoke32 to her, and asked her what was the matter. At first she said nothing except that she was out of work and felt miserable33; but the next moment she broke down completely, and said she hadn't a friend in the world."
"Poor thing!" said the priest, with a pang34 of self-reproach.
"There was nothing to do but to take her to the hospital, and there she has been."
"Is she very ill?"
"She may live, the house surgeon says. But she was very weak for such a trial."
Little more was said as they walked along, and when they reached the hospital, Father Damon was shown without delay into the ward35 where the sick girl lay. Dr. Leigh turned back from the door, and the nurse took him to the bedside. She lay quite still in her cot, wan22 and feeble, with every sign of having encountered a supreme36 peril37.
She turned her head on the low pillow as Father Damon spoke, saying he was very glad he could come to her, and hoped she was feeling better.
"I knew you would come," she said, feebly. "The nurse says I'm better. But I wanted to tell you--" And she stopped.
"Yes, I know," he said. "The Lord is very good. He will forgive all your sins now, if you repent19 and trust Him."
"I hope--" she began. "I'm so weak. If I don't live I want him to know."
"Want whom to know?" asked the father, bending over her.
She signed for him to come closer, and then whispered a name.
"Only if I never see him again, if you see him, you will tell him that I was always true to him. He said such hard words. I was always true."
"I promise," said the father, much moved. "But now, my child, you ought to think of yourself, of your--"
"He is dead. Didn't they tell you? There is nothing any more."
The nurse approached with a warning gesture that the interview was too prolonged.
Father Damon knelt for a moment by the bedside, uttering a hardly articulate prayer. The girl's eyes were closed. When he rose she opened them with a look of gratitude38, and with the sign of blessing39 he turned away.
He intended to hasten from the house. He wanted to be alone. His trouble seemed to him greater than that of the suffering girl. What had he done? What was he in thought better than she? Was this intruding40 human element always to cross the purpose of his spiritual life?
As he was passing through the wide hallway the door of the reception-room was open, and he saw Dr. Leigh seated at the table, with a piece of work in her hands. She looked up, and stopped him with an unspoken inquiry41 in her face. It was only civil to pause a moment and tell her about the patient, and as he stepped within the room she rose.
"You should rest a moment, Father Damon. I know what these scenes are."
Yielding weakly, as he knew, he took the offered chair. But he raised his hand in refusal of the glass of wine which she had ready for him on the table, and offered before he could speak.
"But you must," she said, with a smile. "It is the doctor's prescription42."
She did not look like a doctor. She had laid aside the dusty walking-dress, the business-jacket, the ugly little hat of felt, the battered43 reticule. In her simple house costume she was the woman, homelike, sympathetic, gentle, with the everlasting44 appeal of the strong feminine nature. It was not a temptress who stood before him, but a helpful woman, in whose kind eyes-how beautiful they were in this moment of sympathy--there was trust--and rest--and peace.
"So," she said, when he had taken the much-needed draught45; "in the hospital you must obey the rules, one of which is to let no one sink in exhaustion46."
She had taken her seat now, and resumed her work. Father Damon was looking at her, seeing the woman, perhaps, as he never had seen her before, a certain charm in her quiet figure and modest self-possession, while the thought of her life, of her labors47, as he had seen her now for months and months of entire sacrifice of self, surged through his brain in a whirl of emotion that seemed sweeping48 him away. But when he spoke it was of the girl, and as if to himself.
"I was sorry to let her go that day. Friendless, I should have known. I did know. I should have felt. You--"
"No," she said, gently, interrupting him; "that was my business. You should not accuse yourself. It was a physician's business."
"Yes, a physician--the great Physician. The Master never let the sin hinder his compassion49 for the sinner."
To this she could make no reply. Presently she looked up and said: "But I am sure your visit was a great comfort to the poor girl! She was very eager to see you."
"I do not know."
His air was still abstracted. He was hardly thinking of the girl, after all, but of himself, of the woman who sat before him. It seemed to him that he would have given the world to escape--to fly from her, to fly from himself. Some invisible force held him--a strong, new, and yet not new, emotion, a power that seemed to clutch his very life. He could not think clearly about it. In all his discipline, in his consecration50, in his vows51 of separation from the world, there seemed to have been no shield prepared for this. The human asserted itself, and came in, overwhelming his guards and his barriers like a strong flood in the spring-time of the year, breaking down all artificial contrivances. "They reckon ill who leave me out," is the everlasting cry of the human heart, the great passion of life, incarnate52 in the first man and the first woman.
With a supreme effort of his iron will--is the Will, after all, stronger than Love?--Father Damona rose. He stretched out his hand to say farewell. She also stood, and she felt the hand tremble that held hers.
"God bless you!" he said. "You are so good."
He was going. He took her other hand, and was looking down upon her face. She looked up, and their eyes met. It was for an instant, a flash, glance for glance, as swift as the stab of daggers53.
All the power of heaven and earth could not recall that glance nor undo54 its revelations. The man and the woman stood face to face revealed.
He bent down towards her face. Affrighted by his passion, scarcely able to stand in her sudden emotion, she started back. The action, the instant of time, recalled him to himself. He dropped her hands, and was gone. And the woman, her knees refusing any longer to support her, sank into a chair, helpless, and saw him go, and knew in that moment the height of a woman's joy, the depth of a woman's despair.
It had come to her! Steeled by her science, shielded by her philanthropy, schooled in indifference55 to love, it had come to her! And it was hopeless. Hopeless? It was absurd. Her life was determined. In no event could it be in harmony with his opinions, with his religion, which was dearer to him than life. There was a great gulf56 between them which she could not pass unless she ceased to be herself. And he? A severe priest! Vowed57 and consecrated58 against human passion! What a government of the world--if there were any government--that could permit such a thing! It was terrible.
And yet she was loved! That sang in her heart with all the pain, with all the despair. And with it all was a great pity for him, alone, gone into the wilderness59, as it would seem to him, to struggle with his fierce temptation.
It had come on darker as she sat there. The lamps were lighted, and she was reminded of some visits she must make. She went, mechanically, to her room to prepare for going. The old jacket, which she took up, did look rather rusty60. She went to the press--it was not much of a wardrobe--and put on the one that was reserved for holidays. And the hat? Her friends had often joked her about the hat, but now for the first time she seemed to see it as it might appear to others. As she held it in her hand, and then put it on before the mirror, she smiled a little, faintly, at its appearance. And then she laid it aside for her better hat. She never had been so long in dressing61 before. And in the evening, too, when it could make no difference! It might, after all, be a little more cheerful for her forlorn patients. Perhaps she was not conscious that she was making selections, that she was paying a little more attention to her toilet than usual. Perhaps it was only the woman who was conscious that she was loved.
It would be difficult to say what emotion was uppermost in the mind of Father Damon as he left the house--mortification, contempt of himself, or horror. But there was a sense of escape, of physical escape, and the imperative62 need of it, that quickened his steps almost into a run. In the increasing dark, at this hour, in this quarter of the town, there were comparatively few whose observation of him would recall him to himself. He thought only of escape, and of escape from that quarter of the city that was the witness of his labors and his failure. For the moment to get away from this was the one necessity, and without reasoning in the matter, only feeling, he was hurrying, stumbling in his haste, northward63. Before he went to the hospital he had been tired, physically64 weary. He was scarcely conscious of it now; indeed, his body, his hated body, seemed lighter65, and the dominant66 spirit now awakened67 to contempt of it had a certain pleasure in testing it, in drawing upon its vitality68, to the point of exhaustion if possible. It should be seen which was master. His rapid pace presently brought him into one of the great avenues leading to Harlem. That was the direction he wished to go. That was where he knew, without making any decision, he must go, to the haven of the house of his order, on the heights beyond Harlem. A train was just clattering69 along on the elevated road above him. He could see the faces at the windows, the black masses crowding the platforms. It went pounding by as if it were freight from another world. He was in haste, but haste to escape from himself. That way, bearing him along with other people, and in the moving world, was to bring him in touch with humanity again, and so with what was most hateful in himself. He must be alone. But there was a deeper psychological reason than that for walking, instead of availing himself of the swiftest method of escape. He was not fleeing from justice or pursuit. When the mind is in torture and the spirit is torn, the instinctive8 effort is to bodily activity, to force physical exertion70, as if there must be compensation for the mental strain in the weariness of nature. The priest obeyed this instinct, as if it were possible to walk away from himself, and went on, at first with almost no sense of weariness.
And the shame! He could not bear to be observed. It seemed to him that every one would see in his face that he was a recreant71 priest, perjured72 and forsworn. And so great had been his spiritual pride! So removed he had deemed himself from the weakness of humanity! And he had yielded at the first temptation, and the commonest of all temptations! Thank God, he had not quite yielded. He had fled. And yet, how would it have been if Ruth Leigh had not had a moment of reserve, of prudent73 repulsion! He groaned74 in anguish75. The sin was in the intention. It was no merit of his that he had not with a kiss of passion broken his word to his Lord and lost his soul.
It was remorse76 that was driving him along the avenue; no room for any other thought yet, or feeling. Perhaps it is true in these days that the old-fashioned torture known as remorse is rarely experienced except under the name of detection. But it was a reality with this highly sensitive nature, with this conscience educated to the finest edge of feeling. The world need never know his moment's weakness; Ruth Leigh he could trust as he would have trusted his own sister to guard his honor--that was all over--never, he was sure, would she even by a look recall the past; but he knew how he had fallen, and the awful measure of his lapse77 from loyalty78 to his Master. And how could he ever again stand before erring79, sinful men and women and speak about that purity which he had violated? Could repentance80, confession81, penitence82, wipe away this stain?
As he went on, his mind in a whirl of humiliation83, self-accusation, and contempt, at length he began to be conscious of physical weariness. Except the biscuit and the glass of wine at the hospital, he had taken nothing since his light luncheon84. When he came to the Harlem Bridge he was compelled to rest. Leaning against one of the timbers and half seated, with the softened85 roar of the city in his ears, the lights gleaming on the heights, the river flowing dark and silent, he began to be conscious of his situation. Yes, he was very tired. It seemed difficult to go on without help of some sort. At length he crossed the bridge. Lights were gleaming from the saloons along the street. He paused in front of one, irresolute. Food he could not taste, but something he must have to carry him on. But no, that would not do; he could not enter that in his priest's garb86. He dragged himself along until he came to a drug-shop, the modern saloon of the respectably virtuous87. That he entered, and sat down on a stool by the soda-water counter. The expectant clerk stared at him while waiting the order, his hand tentatively seeking one of the faucets88 of refreshment89.
"I feel a little feverish," said the father. "You may give me five grains of quinine in whisky."
"That'll put you all right," said the boy as he handed him the mixture. "It's all the go now."
It seemed to revive him, and he went out and walked on towards the heights. Somehow, seeing this boy, coming back to common life, perhaps the strong and unaccustomed stimulant90, gave a new shade to his thoughts. He was safe. Presently he would be at the Retreat. He would rest, and then gird up his loins and face life again. The mood lasted for some time. And when the sense of physical weariness came back, that seemed to dull the acuteness of his spiritual torment91. It was late when he reached the house and rang the night-bell. No one of the brothers was up except Father Monies, and it was he who came to the door.
"You! So late! Is anything the matter?"
"I needed to come," the father said, simply, and he grasped the door-post, steadying himself as he came in.
"You look like a ghost."
"Yes. I'm tired. I walked."
"Walked? From Rivington Street?"
"Nearly. I felt like it."
"It's most imprudent. You dined first?"
"I wasn't hungry."
"But you must have something at once." And Father Monies hurried away, heated some bouillon by a spirit-lamp, and brought it, with bread, and set it before his unexpected guest.
"There, eat that, and get to bed as soon as you can. It was great nonsense."
And Father Damon obeyed. Indeed, he was too exhausted to talk.
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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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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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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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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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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extirpate
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| v.除尽，灭绝 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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recreant
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| n.懦夫；adj.胆怯的 | |
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perjured
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| adj.伪证的，犯伪证罪的v.发假誓，作伪证( perjure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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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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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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faucets
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| n.水龙头( faucet的名词复数 ) | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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