The deep, interminable hoot1 of the steam-whistle had, in its grave, vibrating note, something intolerable, which sent a slight shudder2 down Mr. Van Wyk’s back. It was the early afternoon; the Sofala was leaving Batu Beru for Pangu, the next place of call. She swung in the stream, scantily3 attended by a few canoes, and, gliding5 on the broad river, became lost to view from the Van Wyk bungalow6.
Its owner had not gone this time to see her off. Gen- erally he came down to the wharf7, exchanged a few words with the bridge while she cast off, and waved his hand to Captain Whalley at the last moment. This day he did not even go as far as the balustrade of the veranda9. “He couldn’t see me if I did,” he said to himself. “I wonder whether he can make out the house at all.” And this thought somehow made him feel more alone than he had ever felt for all these years. What was it? six or seven? Seven. A long time.
He sat on the veranda with a closed book on his knee, and, as it were, looked out upon his solitude10, as if the fact of Captain Whalley’s blindness had opened his eyes to his own. There were many sorts of heartaches and troubles, and there was no place where they could not find a man out. And he felt ashamed, as though he had for six years behaved like a peevish11 boy.
His thought followed the Sofala on her way. On the spur of the moment he had acted impulsively12, turning to the thing most pressing. And what else could he have done? Later on he should see. It seemed neces- sary that he should come out into the world, for a time at least. He had money — something could be ar- ranged; he would grudge13 no time, no trouble, no loss of his solitude. It weighed on him now — and Captain Whalley appeared to him as he had sat shading his eyes, as if, being deceived in the trust of his faith, he were beyond all the good and evil that can be wrought15 by the hands of men.
Mr. Van Wyk’s thoughts followed the Sofala down the river, winding16 about through the belt of the coast forest, between the buttressed18 shafts20 of the big trees, through the mangrove21 strip, and over the bar. The ship crossed it easily in broad daylight, piloted, as it happened, by Mr. Sterne, who took the watch from four to six, and then went below to hug himself with delight at the pros- pect of being virtually employed by a rich man — like Mr. Van Wyk. He could not see how any hitch23 could occur now. He did not seem able to get over the feeling of being “fixed24 up at last.” From six to eight, in the course of duty, the Serang looked alone after the ship. She had a clear road before her now till about three in the morning, when she would close with the Pangu group. At eight Mr. Sterne came out cheerily to take charge again till midnight. At ten he was still chir- ruping and humming to himself on the bridge, and about that time Mr. Van Wyk’s thought abandoned the Sofala. Mr. Van Wyk had fallen asleep at last.
Massy, blocking the engine-room companion, jerked himself into his tweed jacket surlily, while the second waited with a scowl26.
“Oh. You came out? You sot! Well, what have you got to say for yourself?”
He had been in charge of the engines till then. A somber27 fury darkened his mind: a hot anger against the ship, against the facts of life, against the men for their cheating, against himself too — because of an inward tremor28 of his heart.
An incomprehensible growl29 answered him.
“What? Can’t you open your mouth now? You yelp30 out your infernal rot loud enough when you are drunk. What do you mean by abusing people in that way?— you old useless boozer, you!”
“Can’t help it. Don’t remember anything about it. You shouldn’t listen.”
“You dare to tell me! What do you mean by going on a drunk like this!”
“Don’t ask me. Sick of the dam’ boilers31 — you would be. Sick of life.”
“I wish you were dead, then. You’ve made me sick of you. Don’t you remember the uproar32 you made last night? You miserable34 old soaker!”
“No; I don’t. Don’t want to. Drink is drink.”
“I wonder what prevents me from kicking you out. What do you want here?”
“Relieve you. You’ve been long enough down there, George.”
“Don’t you George me — you tippling old rascal35, you! If I were to die to-morrow you would starve. Remem- ber that. Say Mr. Massy.”
“Mr. Massy,” repeated the other stolidly36.
Disheveled, with dull blood-shot eyes, a snuffy, grimy shirt, greasy37 trowsers, naked feet thrust into ragged38 slippers39, he bolted in head down directly Massy had made way for him.
The chief engineer looked around. The deck was empty as far as the taffrail. All the native passengers had left in Batu Beru this time, and no others had joined. The dial of the patent log tinkled40 periodically in the dark at the end of the ship. It was a dead calm, and, under the clouded sky, through the still air that seemed to cling warm, with a seaweed smell, to her slim hull41, on a sea of somber gray and unwrinkled, the ship moved on an even keel, as if floating detached in empty space. But Mr. Massy slapped his forehead, tottered42 a little, caught hold of a belaying-pin at the foot of the mast.
“I shall go mad,” he muttered, walking across the deck unsteadily. A shovel44 was scraping loose coal down be- low — a fire-door clanged. Sterne on the bridge began whistling a new tune45.
Captain Whalley, sitting on the couch, awake and fully46 dressed, heard the door of his cabin open. He did not move in the least, waiting to recognize the voice, with an appalling47 strain of prudence48.
A bulkhead lamp blazed on the white paint, the crim- son plush, the brown varnish49 of mahogany tops. The white wood packing-case under the bed-place had re- mained unopened for three years now, as though Captain Whalley had felt that, after the Fair Maid was gone, there could be no abiding-place on earth for his affections. His hands rested on his knees; his hand- some head with big eyebrows50 presented a rigid51 profile to the doorway52. The expected voice spoke53 out at last.
“Once more, then. What am I to call you?”
Ha! Massy. Again. The weariness of it crushed his heart — and the pain of shame was almost more than he could bear without crying out.
“Well. Is it to be ‘partner’ still?”
“You don’t know what you ask.”
“I know what I want. . .”
Massy stepped in and closed the door.
“ . . . And I am going to have a try for it with you once more.”
His whine54 was half persuasive55, half menacing.
“For it’s no manner of use to tell me that you are poor. You don’t spend anything on yourself, that’s true enough; but there’s another name for that. You think you are going to have what you want out of me for three years, and then cast me off without hearing what I think of you. You think I would have submitted to your airs if I had known you had only a beggarly five hundred pounds in the world. You ought to have told me.”
“Perhaps,” said Captain Whalley, bowing his head. “And yet it has saved you.” . . . Massy laughed scornfully. . . . “I have told you often enough since.”
“And I don’t believe you now. When I think how I let you lord it over my ship! Do you remember how you used to bullyrag me about my coat and YOUR bridge? It was in his way. HIS bridge! ‘And I won’t be a party to this — and I couldn’t think of doing that.’ Honest man! And now it all comes out. ‘I am poor, and I can’t. I have only this five hundred in the world.’”
He contemplated56 the immobility of Captain Whalley, that seemed to present an inconquerable obstacle in his path. His face took a mournful cast.
“You are a hard man.”
“Enough,” said Captain Whalley, turning upon him. “You shall get nothing from me, because I have nothing of mine to give away now.”
“Tell that to the marines!”
Mr. Massy, going out, looked back once; then the door closed, and Captain Whalley, alone, sat as still as before. He had nothing of his own — even his past of honor, of truth, of just pride, was gone. All his spotless life had fallen into the abyss. He had said his last good-by to it. But what belonged to HER, that he meant to save. Only a little money. He would take it to her in his own hands — this last gift of a man that had lasted too long. And an immense and fierce impulse, the very passion of paternity, flamed up with all the unquenched vigor57 of his worthless life in a desire to see her face.
Just across the deck Massy had gone straight to his cabin, struck a light, and hunted up the note of the dreamed number whose figures had flamed up also with the fierceness of another passion. He must contrive58 somehow not to miss a drawing. That number meant something. But what expedient59 could he contrive to keep himself going?
“Wretched miser33!” he mumbled60.
If Mr. Sterne could at no time have told him anything new about his partner, he could have told Mr. Sterne that another use could be made of a man’s affliction than just to kick him out, and thus defer61 the term of a diffi- cult62 payment for a year. To keep the secret of the affliction and induce him to stay was a better move. If without means, he would be anxious to remain; and that settled the question of refunding63 him his share. He did not know exactly how much Captain Whalley was dis- abled; but if it so happened that he put the ship ashore64 somewhere for good and all, it was not the owner’s fault — was it? He was not obliged to know that there was anything wrong. But probably nobody would raise such a point, and the ship was fully insured. He had had enough self-restraint to pay up the premiums65. But this was not all. He could not believe Captain Whalley to be so confoundedly destitute66 as not to have some more money put away somewhere. If he, Massy, could get hold of it, that would pay for the boilers, and everything went on as before. And if she got lost in the end, so much the better. He hated her: he loathed67 the troubles that took his mind off the chances of fortune. He wished her at the bottom of the sea, and the insurance money in his pocket. And as, baffled, he left Captain Whalley’s cabin, he enveloped68 in the same hatred69 the ship with the worn-out boilers and the man with the dimmed eyes.
And our conduct after all is so much a matter of outside suggestion, that had it not been for his Jack25’s drunken gabble he would have there and then had it out with this miserable man, who would neither help, nor stay, nor yet lose the ship. The old fraud! He longed to kick him out. But he restrained himself. Time enough for that — when he liked. There was a fearful new thought put into his head. Wasn’t he up to it after all? How that beast Jack had raved70! “Find a safe trick to get rid of her.” Well, Jack was not so far wrong. A very clever trick had occurred to him. Aye! But what of the risk?
A feeling of pride — the pride of superiority to com- mon prejudices — crept into his breast, made his heart beat fast, his mouth turn dry. Not everybody would dare; but he was Massy, and he was up to it!
Six bells were struck on deck. Eleven! He drank a glass of water, and sat down for ten minutes or so to calm himself. Then he got out of his chest a small bull’s-eye lantern of his own and lit it.
Almost opposite his berth71, across the narrow passage under the bridge, there was, in the iron deck-structure covering the stokehold fiddle72 and the boiler-space, a storeroom with iron sides, iron roof, iron-plated floor, too, on account of the heat below. All sorts of rubbish was shot there: it had a mound73 of scrap-iron in a corner; rows of empty oil-cans; sacks of cotton-waste, with a heap of charcoal74, a deck-forge, fragments of an old hen- coop, winch-covers all in rags, remnants of lamps, and a brown felt hat, discarded by a man dead now (of a fever on the Brazil coast), who had been once mate of the Sofala, had remained for years jammed forcibly be- hind75 a length of burst copper76 pipe, flung at some time or other out of the engine-room. A complete and im- perious blackness pervaded77 that Capharnaum of for- gotten things. A small shaft19 of light from Mr. Massy’s bull’s-eye fell slanting78 right through it.
His coat was unbuttoned; he shot the bolt of the door (there was no other opening), and, squatting79 before the scrap-heap, began to pack his pockets with pieces of iron. He packed them carefully, as if the rusty80 nuts, the broken bolts, the links of cargo81 chain, had been so much gold he had that one chance to carry away. He packed his side-pockets till they bulged82, the breast pocket, the pockets inside. He turned over the pieces. Some he rejected. A small mist of powdered rust14 began to rise about his busy hands. Mr. Massy knew something of the scientific basis of his clever trick. If you want to deflect83 the magnetic needle of a ship’s compass, soft iron is the best; likewise many small pieces in the pockets of a jacket would have more effect than a few large ones, because in that way you obtain a greater amount of surface for weight in your iron, and it’s sur- face that tells.
He slipped out swiftly — two strides sufficed — and in his cabin he perceived that his hands were all red — red with rust. It disconcerted him, as though he had found them covered with blood: he looked himself over hastily. Why, his trowsers too! He had been rubbing his rusty palms on his legs.
He tore off the waistband button in his haste, brushed his coat, washed his hands. Then the air of guilt84 left him, and he sat down to wait.
He sat bolt upright and weighted with iron in his chair. He had a hard, lumpy bulk against each hip22, felt the scrappy iron in his pockets touch his ribs85 at every breath, the downward drag of all these pounds hanging upon his shoulders. He looked very dull too, sitting idle there, and his yellow face, with motionless black eyes, had something passive and sad in its quiet- ness.
When he heard eight bells struck above his head, he rose and made ready to go out. His movements seemed aimless, his lower lip had dropped a little, his eyes roamed about the cabin, and the tremendous tension of his will had robbed them of every vestige86 of intelligence.
With the last stroke of the bell the Serang appeared noiselessly on the bridge to relieve the mate. Sterne overflowed87 with good nature, since he had nothing more to desire.
“Got your eyes well open yet, Serang? It’s middling dark; I’ll wait till you get your sight properly.”
The old Malay murmured, looked up with his worn eyes, sidled away into the light of the binnacle, and, crossing his hands behind his back, fixed his eyes on the compass-card.
“You’ll have to keep a good look-out ahead for land, about half-past three. It’s fairly clear, though. You have looked in on the captain as you came along — eh? He knows the time? Well, then, I am off.”
At the foot of the ladder he stood aside for the captain. He watched him go up with an even, certain tread, and remained thoughtful for a moment. “It’s funny,” he said to himself, “but you can never tell whether that man has seen you or not. He might have heard me breathe this time.”
He was a wonderful man when all was said and done. They said he had had a name in his day. Mr. Sterne could well believe it; and he concluded serenely88 that Captain Whalley must be able to see people more or less — as himself just now, for instance — but not being cer- tain of anybody, had to keep up that unnoticing silence of manner for fear of giving himself away. Mr. Sterne was a shrewd guesser.
This necessity of every moment brought home to Captain Whalley’s heart the humiliation89 of his falsehood. He had drifted into it from paternal90 love, from incredulity, from boundless91 trust in divine justice meted92 out to men’s feelings on this earth. He would give his poor Ivy93 the benefit of another month’s work; perhaps the affliction was only temporary. Surely God would not rob his child of his power to help, and cast him naked into a night without end. He had caught at every hope; and when the evidence of his misfortune was stronger than hope, he tried not to believe the manifest thing.
In vain. In the steadily43 darkening universe a sinister94 clearness fell upon his ideas. In the illuminating95 moments of suffering he saw life, men, all things, the whole earth with all her burden of created nature, as he had never seen them before.
Sometimes he was seized with a sudden vertigo96 and an overwhelming terror; and then the image of his daughter appeared. Her, too, he had never seen so clearly before. Was it possible that he should ever be unable to do anything whatever for her? Nothing. And not see her any more? Never.
Why? The punishment was too great for a little presumption97, for a little pride. And at last he came to cling to his deception98 with a fierce determination to carry it out to the end, to save her money intact, and behold99 her once more with his own eyes. Afterwards — what? The idea of suicide was revolting to the vigor of his manhood. He had prayed for death till the prayers had stuck in his throat. All the days of his life he had prayed for daily bread, and not to be led into temptation, in a childlike humility100 of spirit. Did words mean anything? Whence did the gift of speech come? The violent beating of his heart reverberated101 in his head — seemed to shake his brain to pieces.
He sat down heavily in the deck-chair to keep the pretense102 of his watch. The night was dark. All the nights were dark now.
“Serang,” he said, half aloud.
“Ada, Tuan. I am here.”
“There are clouds on the sky?”
“There are, Tuan.”
“Let her be steered103 straight. North.”
“She is going north, Tuan.”
The Serang stepped back. Captain Whalley recognized Massy’s footfalls on the bridge.
The engineer walked over to port and returned, passing behind the chair several times. Captain Whalley detected an unusual character as of prudent105 care in this prowling. The near presence of that man brought with it always a recrudescence of moral suffering for Captain Whalley. It was not remorse106. After all, he had done nothing but good to the poor devil. There was also a sense of danger — the necessity of a greater care.
Massy stopped and said —
“So you still say you must go?”
“I must indeed.”
“And you couldn’t at least leave the money for a term of years?”
“Impossible.”
“Can’t trust it with me without your care, eh?”
Captain Whalley remained silent. Massy sighed deeply over the back of the chair.
“It would just do to save me,” he said in a tremulous voice.
“I’ve saved you once.”
The chief engineer took off his coat with careful movements, and proceeded to feel for the brass107 hook screwed into the wooden stanchion. For this purpose he placed himself right in front of the binnacle, thus hiding completely the compass-card from the quarter-master at the wheel. “Tuan!” the lascar at last murmured softly, meaning to let the white man know that he could not see to steer104.
Mr. Massy had accomplished108 his purpose. The coat was hanging from the nail, within six inches of the binnacle. And directly he had stepped aside the quarter-master, a middle-aged109, pock-marked, Sumatra Malay, almost as dark as a negro, perceived with amazement110 that in that short time, in this smooth water, with no wind at all, the ship had gone swinging far out of her course. He had never known her get away like this before. With a slight grunt111 of astonishment112 he turned the wheel hastily to bring her head back north, which was the course. The grinding of the steering-chains, the chiding113 murmurs114 of the Serang, who had come over to the wheel, made a slight stir, which attracted Captain Whalley’s anxious attention. He said, “Take better care.” Then everything settled to the usual quiet on the bridge. Mr. Massy had disappeared.
But the iron in the pockets of the coat had done its work; and the Sofala, heading north by the compass, made untrue by this simple device, was no longer making a safe course for Pangu Bay.
The hiss115 of water parted by her stem, the throb116 of her engines, all the sounds of her faithful and laborious117 life, went on uninterrupted in the great calm of the sea joining on all sides the motionless layer of cloud over the sky. A gentle stillness as vast as the world seemed to wait upon her path, enveloping118 her lovingly in a supreme119 caress120. Mr. Massy thought there could be no better night for an arranged shipwreck121.
Run up high and dry on one of the reefs east of Pangu — wait for daylight — hole in the bottom — out boats — Pangu Bay same evening. That’s about it. As soon as she touched he would hasten on the bridge, get hold of the coat (nobody would notice in the dark), and shake it upside-down over the side, or even fling it into the sea. A detail. Who could guess? Coat been seen hanging there from that hook hundreds of times. Nevertheless, when he sat down on the lower step of the bridge-ladder his knees knocked together a little. The waiting part was the worst of it. At times he would begin to pant quickly, as though he had been running, and then breathe largely, swelling123 with the intimate sense of a mastered fate. Now and then he would hear the shuffle124 of the Serang’s bare feet up there: quiet, low voices would exchange a few words, and lapse125 almost at once into silence . . . .
“Tell me directly you see any land, Serang.”
“Yes, Tuan. Not yet.”
“No, not yet,” Captain Whalley would agree.
The ship had been the best friend of his decline. He had sent all the money he had made by and in the Sofala to his daughter. His thought lingered on the name. How often he and his wife had talked over the cot of the child in the big stern-cabin of the Condor126; she would grow up, she would marry, she would love them, they would live near her and look at her happiness — it would go on without end. Well, his wife was dead, to the child he had given all he had to give; he wished he could come near her, see her, see her face once, live in the sound of her voice, that could make the darkness of the living grave ready for him supportable. He had been starved of love too long. He imagined her tenderness.
The Serang had been peering forward, and now and then glancing at the chair. He fidgeted restlessly, and suddenly burst out close to Captain Whalley —
“Tuan, do you see anything of the land?”
The alarmed voice brought Captain Whalley to his feet at once. He! See! And at the question, the curse of his blindness seemed to fall on him with a hundredfold force.
“What’s the time?” he cried.
“Half-past three, Tuan.”
“We are close. You MUST see. Look, I say. Look.”
Mr. Massy, awakened127 by the sudden sound of talking from a short doze128 on the lowest step, wondered why he was there. Ah! A faintness came over him. It is one thing to sow the seed of an accident and another to see the monstrous129 fruit hanging over your head ready to fall in the sound of agitated130 voices.
“There’s no danger,” he muttered thickly.
The horror of incertitude131 had seized upon Captain Whalley, the miserable mistrust of men, of things — of the very earth. He had steered that very course thirty-six times by the same compass — if anything was certain in this world it was its absolute, unerring correctness. Then what had happened? Did the Serang lie? Why lie? Why? Was he going blind too?
“Is there a mist? Look low on the water. Low down, I say.”
“Tuan, there’s no mist. See for yourself.”
Captain Whalley steadied the trembling of his limbs by an effort. Should he stop the engines at once and give himself away. A gust132 of irresolution133 swayed all sorts of bizarre notions in his mind. The unusual had come, and he was not fit to deal with it. In this passage of inexpressible anguish134 he saw her face — the face of a young girl — with an amazing strength of illusion. No, he must not give himself away after having gone so far for her sake. “You steered the course? You made it? Speak the truth.”
“Ya, Tuan. On the course now. Look.”
Captain Whalley strode to the binnacle, which to him made such a dim spot of light in an infinity135 of shapeless shadow. By bending his face right down to the glass he had been able before. . .
Having to stoop so low, he put out, instinctively136, his arm to where he knew there was a stanchion to steady himself against. His hand closed on something that was not wood but cloth. The slight pull adding to the weight, the loop broke, and Mr. Massy’s coat falling, struck the deck heavily with a dull thump137, accompanied by a lot of clicks.
“What’s this?”
Captain Whalley fell on his knees, with groping hands extended in a frank gesture of blindness. They trembled, these hands feeling for the truth. He saw it. Iron near the compass. Wrong course. Wreck122 her! His ship. Oh no. Not that.
“Jump and stop her!” he roared out in a voice not his own.
He ran himself — hands forward, a blind man, and while the clanging of the gong echoed still all over the ship, she seemed to butt17 full tilt138 into the side of a mountain.
It was low water along the north side of the strait. Mr. Massy had not reckoned on that. Instead of running aground for half her length, the Sofala butted139 the sheer ridge8 of a stone reef which would have been awash at high water. This made the shock absolutely terrific. Everybody in the ship that was standing140 was thrown down headlong: the shaken rigging made a great rattling141 to the very trucks. All the lights went out: several chain-guys, snapping, clattered142 against the funnel143: there were crashes, pings of parted wire-rope, splintering sounds, loud cracks, the masthead lamp flew over the bows, and all the doors about the deck began to bang heavily. Then, after having hit, she rebounded144, hit the second time the very same spot like a battering-ram. This completed the havoc145: the funnel, with all the guys gone, fell over with a hollow sound of thunder, smashing the wheel to bits, crushing the frame of the awnings146, breaking the lockers147, filling the bridge with a mass of splinters, sticks, and broken wood. Captain Whalley picked himself up and stood knee-deep in wreckage148, torn, bleeding, knowing the nature of the danger he had escaped mostly by the sound, and holding Mr. Massy’s coat in his arms.
By this time Sterne (he had been flung out of his bunk) had set the engines astern. They worked for a few turns, then a voice bawled149 out, “Get out of the damned engine-room, Jack!”— and they stopped; but the ship had gone clear of the reef and lay still, with a heavy cloud of steam issuing from the broken deck-pipes, and vanishing in wispy150 shapes into the night. Notwithstanding the suddenness of the disaster there was no shouting, as if the very violence of the shock had half-stunned the shadowy lot of people swaying here and there about her decks. The voice of the Serang pronounced distinctly above the confused murmurs —
“Eight fathom151.” He had heaved the lead.
Mr. Sterne cried out next in a strained pitch —
“Where the devil has she got to? Where are we?”
Captain Whalley replied in a calm bass152 —
“Amongst the reefs to the eastward153.”
“You know it, sir? Then she will never get out again.”
“She will be sunk in five minutes. Boats, Sterne. Even one will save you all in this calm.”
The Chinaman stokers went in a disorderly rush for the port boats. Nobody tried to check them. The Malays, after a moment of confusion, became quiet, and Mr. Sterne showed a good countenance154. Captain Whalley had not moved. His thoughts were darker than this night in which he had lost his first ship.
“He made me lose a ship.”
Another tall figure standing before him amongst the litter of the smash on the bridge whispered insanely —
“Say nothing of it.”
Massy stumbled closer. Captain Whalley heard the chattering155 of his teeth.
“I have the coat.”
“Throw it down and come along,” urged the chattering voice. “B-b-b-b-boat!”
“You will get fifteen years for this.”
Mr. Massy had lost his voice. His speech was a mere156 dry rustling157 in his throat.
“Have mercy!”
“Had you any when you made me lose my ship? Mr. Massy, you shall get fifteen years for this!”
“I wanted money! Money! My own money! I will give you some money. Take half of it. You love money yourself.”
“There’s a justice. . .”
Massy made an awful effort, and in a strange, half choked utterance158 —
“You blind devil! It’s you that drove me to it.”
Captain Whalley, hugging the coat to his breast, made no sound. The light had ebbed159 for ever from the world — let everything go. But this man should not escape scot-free.
Sterne’s voice commanded —
“Lower away!”
“Now then,” he cried, “over with you. This way. You, Jack, here. Mr. Massy! Mr. Massy! Captain! Quick, sir! Let’s get —
“I shall go to prison for trying to cheat the insurance, but you’ll get exposed; you, honest man, who has been cheating me. You are poor. Aren’t you? You’ve nothing but the five hundred pounds. Well, you have nothing at all now. The ship’s lost, and the insurance won’t be paid.”
Captain Whalley did not move. True! Ivy’s money! Gone in this wreck. Again he had a flash of insight. He was indeed at the end of his tether.
Urgent voices cried out together alongside. Massy did not seem able to tear himself away from the bridge. He chattered161 and hissed162 despairingly —
“Give it up to me! Give it up!”
“No,” said Captain Whalley; “I could not give it up. You had better go. Don’t wait, man, if you want to live. She’s settling down by the head fast. No; I shall keep it, but I shall stay on board.”
Massy did not seem to understand; but the love of life, awakened suddenly, drove him away from the bridge.
Captain Whalley laid the coat down, and stumbled amongst the heaps of wreckage to the side.
“Is Mr. Massy in with you?” he called out into the night.
Sterne from the boat shouted —
“Yes; we’ve got him. Come along, sir. It’s madness to stay longer.”
Captain Whalley felt along the rail carefully, and, without a word, cast off the painter. They were expecting him still down there. They were waiting, till a voice suddenly exclaimed —
“We are adrift! Shove off!”
“Captain Whalley! Leap! . . . pull up a little . . . leap! You can swim.”
In that old heart, in that vigorous body, there was, that nothing should be wanting, a horror of death that apparently163 could not be overcome by the horror of blindness. But after all, for Ivy he had carried his point, walking in his darkness to the very verge164 of a crime. God had not listened to his prayers. The light had finished ebbing165 out of the world; not a glimmer166. It was a dark waste; but it was unseemly that a Whalley who had gone so far to carry a point should continue to live. He must pay the price.
“Leap as far as you can, sir; we will pick you up.”
They did not hear him answer. But their shouting seemed to remind him of something. He groped his way back, and sought for Mr. Massy’s coat. He could swim indeed; people sucked down by the whirlpool of a sinking ship do come up sometimes to the surface, and it was unseemly that a Whalley, who had made up his mind to die, should be beguiled167 by chance into a struggle. He would put all these pieces of iron into his own pockets.
They, looking from the boat, saw the Sofala, a black mass upon a black sea, lying still at an appalling cant4. No sound came from her. Then, with a great bizarre shuffling168 noise, as if the boilers had broken through the bulkheads, and with a faint muffled169 detonation170, where the ship had been there appeared for a moment something standing upright and narrow, like a rock out of the sea. Then that too disappeared.
When the Sofala failed to come back to Batu Beru at the proper time, Mr. Van Wyk understood at once that he would never see her any more. But he did not know what had happened till some months afterwards, when, in a native craft lent him by his Sultan, he had made his way to the Sofala’s port of registry, where already her existence and the official inquiry171 into her loss was beginning to be forgotten.
It had not been a very remarkable172 or interesting case, except for the fact that the captain had gone down with his sinking ship. It was the only life lost; and Mr. Van Wyk would not have been able to learn any details had it not been for Sterne, whom he met one day on the quay173 near the bridge over the creek174, almost on the very spot where Captain Whalley, to preserve his daughter’s five hundred pounds intact, had turned to get a sampan which would take him on board the Sofala.
From afar Mr. Van Wyk saw Sterne blink straight at him and raise his hand to his hat. They drew into the shade of a building (it was a bank), and the mate related how the boat with the crew got into Pangu Bay about six hours after the accident, and how they had lived for a fortnight in a state of destitution175 before they found an opportunity to get away from that beastly place. The inquiry had exonerated176 everybody from all blame. The loss of the ship was put down to an unusual set of the current. Indeed, it could not have been anything else: there was no other way to account for the ship being set seven miles to the eastward of her position during the middle watch.
“A piece of bad luck for me, sir.”
Sterne passed his tongue on his lips, and glanced aside. “I lost the advantage of being employed by you, sir. I can never be sorry enough. But here it is: one man’s poison, another man’s meat. This could not have been handier for Mr. Massy if he had arranged that ship-wreck himself. The most timely total loss I’ve ever heard of.”
“What became of that Massy?” asked Mr. Van Wyk.
“He, sir? Ha! ha! He would keep on telling me that he meant to buy another ship; but as soon as he had the money in his pocket he cleared out for Manilla by mail-boat early in the morning. I gave him chase right aboard, and he told me then he was going to make his fortune dead sure in Manilla. I could go to the devil for all he cared. And yet he as good as promised to give me the command if I didn’t talk too much.”
“You never said anything. . .” Mr. Van Wyk began.
“Not I, sir. Why should I? I mean to get on, but the dead aren’t in my way,” said Sterne. His eyelids177 were beating rapidly, then drooped178 for an instant. “Besides, sir, it would have been an awkward business. You made me hold my tongue just a bit too long.”
“Do you know how it was that Captain Whalley remained on board? Did he really refuse to leave? Come now! Or was it perhaps an accidental. . .?”
“Nothing!” Sterne interrupted with energy. “I tell you I yelled for him to leap overboard. He simply MUST have cast off the painter of the boat himself. We all yelled to him — that is, Jack and I. He wouldn’t even answer us. The ship was as silent as a grave to the last. Then the boilers fetched away, and down she went. Accident! Not it! The game was up, sir, I tell you.”
This was all that Sterne had to say.
Mr. Van Wyk had been of course made the guest of the club for a fortnight, and it was there that he met the lawyer in whose office had been signed the agreement between Massy and Captain Whalley.
“Extraordinary old man,” he said. “He came into my office from nowhere in particular as you may say, with his five hundred pounds to place, and that engineer fellow following him anxiously. And now he is gone out a little inexplicably179, just as he came. I could never understand him quite. There was no mystery at all about that Massy, eh? I wonder whether Whalley refused to leave the ship. It would have been foolish. He was blameless, as the court found.”
Mr. Van Wyk had known him well, he said, and he could not believe in suicide. Such an act would not have been in character with what he knew of the man.
“It is my opinion, too,” the lawyer agreed. The general theory was that the captain had remained too long on board trying to save something of importance. Perhaps the chart which would clear him, or else something of value in his cabin. The painter of the boat had come adrift of itself it was supposed. However, strange to say, some little time before that voyage poor Whalley had called in his office and had left with him a sealed envelope addressed to his daughter, to be forwarded to her in case of his death. Still it was nothing very unusual, especially in a man of his age. Mr. Van Wyk shook his head. Captain Whalley looked good for a hundred years.
“Perfectly180 true,” assented181 the lawyer. “The old fellow looked as though he had come into the world full-grown and with that long beard. I could never, somehow, imagine him either younger or older — don’t you know. There was a sense of physical power about that man too. And perhaps that was the secret of that something peculiar182 in his person which struck everybody who came in contact with him. He looked indestructible by any ordinary means that put an end to the rest of us. His deliberate, stately courtesy of manner was full of significance. It was as though he were certain of having plenty of time for everything. Yes, there was something indestructible about him; and the way he talked sometimes you might have thought he believed it himself. When he called on me last with that letter he wanted me to take charge of, he was not depressed183 at all. Perhaps a shade more deliberate in his talk and manner. Not depressed in the least. Had he a presentiment184, I wonder? Perhaps! Still it seems a miserable end for such a striking figure.”
“Oh yes! It was a miserable end,” Mr. Van Wyk said, with so much fervor185 that the lawyer looked up at him curiously186; and afterwards, after parting with him, he remarked to an acquaintance —
“Queer person that Dutch tobacco-planter from Batu Beru. Know anything of him?”
“Heaps of money,” answered the bank manager. “I hear he’s going home by the next mail to form a company to take over his estates. Another tobacco district thrown open. He’s wise, I think. These good times won’t last for ever.”
In the southern hemisphere Captain Whalley’s daughter had no presentiment of evil when she opened the envelope addressed to her in the lawyer’s handwriting. She had received it in the afternoon; all the boarders had gone out, her boys were at school, her husband sat upstairs in his big arm-chair with a book, thin-faced, wrapped up in rugs to the waist. The house was still, and the grayness of a cloudy day lay against the panes187 of three lofty windows.
In a shabby dining-room, where a faint cold smell of dishes lingered all the year round, sitting at the end of a long table surrounded by many chairs pushed in with their backs close against the edge of the perpetually laid table-cloth, she read the opening sentence: “Most profound regret — painful duty — your father is no more — in accordance with his instructions — fatal casualty — consolation188 — no blame attached to his memory . . . .”
Her face was thin, her temples a little sunk under the smooth bands of black hair, her lips remained resolutely189 compressed, while her dark eyes grew larger, till at last, with a low cry, she stood up, and instantly stooped to pick up another envelope which had slipped off her knees on to the floor.
She tore it open, snatched out the inclosure . . . .
“My dearest child,” it said, “I am writing this while I am able yet to write legibly. I am trying hard to save for you all the money that is left; I have only kept it to serve you better. It is yours. It shall not be lost: it shall not be touched. There’s five hundred pounds. Of what I have earned I have kept nothing back till now. For the future, if I live, I must keep back some — a little — to bring me to you. I must come to you. I must see you once more.
“It is hard to believe that you will ever look on these lines. God seems to have forgotten me. I want to see you — and yet death would be a greater favor. If you ever read these words, I charge you to begin by thanking a God merciful at last, for I shall be dead then, and it will be well. My dear, I am at the end of my tether.”
The next paragraph began with the words: “My sight is going. . .”
She read no more that day. The hand holding up the paper to her eyes fell slowly, and her slender figure in a plain black dress walked rigidly190 to the window. Her eyes were dry: no cry of sorrow or whisper of thanks went up to heaven from her lips. Life had been too hard, for all the efforts of his love. It had silenced her emotions. But for the first time in all these years its sting had departed, the carking care of poverty, the meanness of a hard struggle for bread. Even the image of her husband and of her children seemed to glide191 away from her into the gray twilight192; it was her father’s face alone that she saw, as though he had come to see her, always quiet and big, as she had seen him last, but with something more august and tender in his aspect.
She slipped his folded letter between the two buttons of her plain black bodice, and leaning her forehead against a window-pane remained there till dusk, perfectly motionless, giving him all the time she could spare. Gone! Was it possible? My God, was it possible! The blow had come softened193 by the spaces of the earth, by the years of absence. There had been whole days when she had not thought of him at all — had no time. But she had loved him, she felt she had loved him, after all.
The End
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hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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14
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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buttressed
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| v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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mangrove
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| n.(植物)红树，红树林 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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25
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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26
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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27
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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28
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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29
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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30
yelp
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| vi.狗吠 | |
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31
boilers
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| 锅炉，烧水器，水壶( boiler的名词复数 ) | |
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32
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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33
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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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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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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36
stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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38
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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39
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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40
tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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41
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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42
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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43
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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44
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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45
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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46
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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47
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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48
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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49
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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50
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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51
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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52
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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53
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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54
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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55
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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56
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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57
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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58
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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59
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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60
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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62
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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63
refunding
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| n.借新债还旧债；再融资；债务延展；发行新债券取代旧债券v.归还，退还( refund的现在分词 ) | |
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64
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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65
premiums
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| n.费用( premium的名词复数 )；保险费；额外费用；（商品定价、贷款利息等以外的）加价 | |
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66
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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67
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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68
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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70
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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71
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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72
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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73
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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74
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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75
hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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76
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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77
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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79
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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80
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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81
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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82
bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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83
deflect
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| v.(使)偏斜，(使)偏离，(使)转向 | |
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84
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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85
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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86
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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87
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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88
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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89
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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90
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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91
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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92
meted
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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94
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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95
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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96
vertigo
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| n.眩晕 | |
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97
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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98
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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99
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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100
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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101
reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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102
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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103
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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104
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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105
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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106
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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107
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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108
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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109
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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110
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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111
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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112
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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113
chiding
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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114
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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115
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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116
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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117
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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118
enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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119
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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120
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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121
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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122
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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123
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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124
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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125
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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126
condor
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| n.秃鹰；秃鹰金币 | |
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127
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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128
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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129
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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130
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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131
incertitude
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| n.疑惑，不确定 | |
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132
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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133
irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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134
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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135
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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136
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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137
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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138
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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139
butted
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| 对接的 | |
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140
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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141
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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142
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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143
funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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144
rebounded
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| 弹回( rebound的过去式和过去分词 )； 反弹； 产生反作用； 未能奏效 | |
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145
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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146
awnings
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| 篷帐布 | |
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147
lockers
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| n.寄物柜( locker的名词复数 ) | |
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148
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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149
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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150
wispy
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| adj.模糊的；纤细的 | |
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151
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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152
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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153
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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154
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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155
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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156
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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157
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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158
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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159
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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160
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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161
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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162
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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163
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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164
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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165
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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166
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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167
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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168
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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169
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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170
detonation
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| n.爆炸；巨响 | |
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171
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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172
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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173
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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174
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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175
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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176
exonerated
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| v.使免罪，免除( exonerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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177
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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178
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179
inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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180
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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181
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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182
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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183
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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184
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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185
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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186
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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187
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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188
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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189
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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190
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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191
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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192
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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193
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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