“BUT RICH AS WAS THE WAR for surgical1 science,” ended Hawtry, “opening up through mutilation and torture unexplored regions which the genius of man was quick to enter, and, entering, found ways to checkmate suffering and death — for always, my friend, the distillate from the blood of sacrifice is progress — great as all this was, the world tragedy has opened up still another region wherein even greater knowledge will be found. It was the clinic unsurpassed for the psychologist even more than for the surgeon.”
Latour, the great little French doctor, drew himself out of the depths of the big chair; the light from the fireplace fell ruddily upon his keen face.
“That is true,” he said. “Yes, that is true. There in the furnace the mind of man opened like a flower beneath a too glowing sun. Beaten about in that colossal2 tempest of primitive3 forces, caught in the chaos4 of energies both physical and psychical5 — which, although man himself was its creator, made of their maker6 a moth7 in a whirlwind — all those obscure, those mysterious factors of mind which men, for lack of knowledge, have named the soul, were stripped of their inhibitions and given power to appear.
“How could it have been otherwise — when men and women, gripped by one shattering sorrow or joy, will manifest the hidden depths of spirit — how could it have been otherwise in that steadily8 maintained crescendo9 of emotion?” McAndrews spoke10.
“Just which psychological region do you mean, Hawtry?” he asked.
There were four of us in front of the fireplace of the Science Club — Hawtry, who rules the chair of psychology11 in one of our greatest colleges, and whose name is an honored one throughout the world; Latour, an immortal12 of France; McAndrews, the famous American surgeon whose work during the war has written a new page in the shining book of science; and myself. These are not the names of the three, but they are as I have described them; and I am pledged to identify them no further.
“I mean the field of suggestion,” replied the psychologist.
“The mental reactions which reveal themselves as visions — an accidental formation in the clouds that becomes to the over-wrought imaginations of the beholders the so-eagerly-prayed-for hosts of Joan of Arc marching out from heaven; moonlight in the cloud rift13 that becomes to the besieged14 a fiery15 cross held by the hands of archangels; the despair and hope that are transformed into such a legend as the bowmen of Mons, ghostly archers16 who with their phantom17 shafts18 overwhelm the conquering enemy; wisps of cloud over No Man's Land that are translated by the tired eyes of those who peer out into the shape of the Son of Man himself walking sorrowfully among the dead. Signs, portents19, and miracles, the hosts of premonitions, of apparitions20 of loved ones — all dwellers21 in this land of suggestion; all born of the tearing loose of the veils of the subconscious22. Here, when even a thousandth part is gathered, will be work for the psychological analyst23 for twenty years.”
“And the boundaries of this region?” asked McAndrews.
“Boundaries?” Hawtry plainly was perplexed24.
McAndrews for a moment was silent. Then he drew from his pocket a yellow slip of paper, a cablegram.
“Young Peter Laveller died today,” he said, apparently25 irrelevantly26. “Died where he had set forth27 to pass — in the remnants of the trenches29 that cut through the ancient domain30 of the Seigniors of Tocquelain, up near Bethune.”
“Died there!” Hawtry's astonishment31 was profound. “But I read that he had been brought home; that, indeed, he was one of your triumphs, McAndrews!”
“I said he went there to die,” repeated the surgeon slowly.
So that explained the curious reticence32 of the Lavellers as to what had become of their soldier son — a secrecy33 which had puzzled the press for weeks. For young Peter Laveller was one of the nation's heroes. The only boy of old Peter Laveller — and neither is that the real name of the family, for, like the others, I may not reveal it — he was the heir to the grim old coal king's millions, and the secret, best loved pulse of his heart.
Early in the war he had enlisted34 with the French. His father's influence might have abrogated35 the law of the French army that every man must start from the bottom up — I do not know — but young Peter would have none of it. Steady of purpose, burning with the white fire of the first Crusaders, he took his place in the ranks.
Clean-cut, blue-eyed, standing36 six feet in his stocking feet, just twenty-five, a bit of a dreamer, perhaps, he was one to strike the imagination of the poilus, and they loved him. Twice was he wounded in the perilous37 days, and when America came into the war he was transferred to our expeditionary forces. It was at the siege of Mount Kemmel that he received the wounds that brought him back to his father and sister. McAndrews had accompanied him overseas, I knew, and had patched him together — or so all thought.
What had happened then — and why had Laveller gone back to France, to die, as McAndrews put it?
He thrust the cablegram back into his pocket.
“There is a boundary, John,” he said to Hawtry. “Laveller's was a borderland case. I'm going to tell it to you.” He hesitated. “I ought not to, maybe; and yet I have an idea that Peter would like it told; after all, he believed himself a discoverer.” Again he paused; then definitely made up his mind, and turned to me.
“Merritt, you may make use of this if you think it interesting enough. But if you do so decide, then change the names, and be sure to check description short of any possibility of ready identification. After all, it is what happened that is important — and those to whom it happened do not matter.”
I promised, and I have observed my pledge. I tell the story as he whom I call McAndrews reconstructed it for us there in the shadowed room, while we sat silent until he had ended.
Laveller stood behind the parapet of a first-line trench28. It was night — an early April night in northern France — and when that is said, all is said to those who have been there.
Beside him was a trench periscope38. His gun lay touching39 it. The periscope is practically useless at night; so through a slit40 in the sand-bags he peered out over the three-hundred-foot-wide stretch of No Man's Land.
Opposite him he knew that other eyes lay close to similar slits41 in the German parapet, watchful42 as his were for the least movement.
There were grotesque43 heaps scattered44 about No Man's Land, and when the star-shells burst and flooded it with their glare these heaps seemed to stir to move — some to raise themselves, some to gesticulate, to protest. And this was very horrible, for those who moved under the lights were the dead — French and English, Prussian and Bavarian — dregs of a score of carryings to the red wine-press of war set up in this sector45.
There were two Jocks on the entanglements46; kilted Scots, one colandered by machine-gun hail just as he was breaking through. The shock of the swift, manifold death had hurled48 his left arm about the neck of the comrade close beside him; and this man had been stricken within the same second. There they leaned, embracing — and as the star-shells flared49 and died, flared and died, they seemed to rock, to try to break from the wire, to dash forward, to return.
Laveller was weary, weary beyond all understanding. The sector was a bad one and nervous. For almost seventy-two hours he had been without sleep — for the few minutes now and then of dead stupor50 broken by constant alarms was worse than sleep.
The shelling had been well-nigh continuous, and the food scarce and perilous to get; three miles back through the fire they had been forced to go for it; no nearer than that could the ration51 dumps be brought.
And constantly the parapets had to be rebuilt and the wires repaired — and when this was done the shells destroyed again, and once more the dreary52 routine had to be gone through; for the orders were to hold this sector at all costs.
All that was left of Laveller's consciousness was concentrated in his eyes; only his seeing faculty53 lived. And sight, obeying the rigid54, inexorable will commanding every reserve of vitality55 to concentrate on the duty at hand, was blind to everything except the strip before it that Laveller must watch until relieved. His body was numb56; he could not feel the ground with his feet, and sometimes he seemed to be floating in air like — like the two Scots upon the wire!
Why couldn't they be still? What right had men whose blood had drained away into a black stain beneath them to dance and pirouette to the rhythm of the flares57? Damn them — why couldn't a shell drop down and bury them?
There was a chateau58 half a mile up there to the right — at least it had been a chateau. Under it were deep cellars into which one could creep and sleep. He knew that, because ages ago, when first he had come into this part of the line, he had slept a night there.
It would be like reentering paradise to crawl again into those cellars, out of the pitiless rain; sleep once more with a roof over his head.
“I will sleep and sleep and sleep — and sleep and sleep and sleep,” he told himself; then stiffened59 as at the slumber-compelling repetition of the word darkness began to gather before him.
The star-shells flared and died, flared and died; the staccato of a machine gun reached him. He thought that it was his teeth chattering60 until his groping consciousness made him realize what it. really was — some nervous German riddling61 the interminable movement of the dead.
There was a squidging of feet through the chalky mud. No need to look; they were friends, or they could not have passed the sentries62 at the angle of the traverse. Nevertheless, involuntarily, his eyes swept toward the sounds, took note of three cloaked figures regarding him.
There were half a dozen of the lights floating overhead now, and by the gleams they cast into the trench he recognized the party.
One of them was that famous surgeon who had come over from the base hospital at Bethune to see made the wounds he healed; the others were his major and his captain — all of them bound for those cellars, no doubt. Well, some had all the luck! Back went his eyes to the slit.
“What's wrong?” It was the voice of the major addressing the visitor.
“What's wrong — what's wrong — what's wrong?” The words repeated themselves swiftly, insistently63, within his brain, over and over again, striving to waken it.
Well, what was wrong? Nothing was wrong! Wasn't he, Laveller, there and watching? The tormented64 brain writhed65 angrily. Nothing was wrong — why didn't they go away and let him watch in peace?
“Nothing.” It was the surgeon — and again the words kept babbling66 in Laveller's ears, small, whispering, rapidly repeating themselves over and over; “Nothing — nothing — nothing — nothing.”
But what was this the surgeon was saying? Fragmentarily, only half understood, the phrases registered:
“Perfect case of what I've been telling you. This lad here — utterly67 worn, weary — all his consciousness centered upon just one thing — watchfulness68 . . . consciousness worn to finest point . . . behind it all his subconsciousness69 crowding to escape . . . consciousness will respond to only one stimulus70 — movement from without . . . but the subconsciousness, so close to the surface, held so lightly in leash71 . . . what will it do if that little thread is loosed . . . a perfect case.”
What were they talking about? Now they were whispering.
“Then, if I have your permission — ” It was the surgeon speaking again. Permission for what? Why didn't they go away and not bother him? Wasn't it hard enough just to watch without having to hear? Some thing passed before his eyes. He looked at it blindly, unrecognizing. His sight must be clouded.
He raised a hand and brushed at his lids. Yes, it must have been his eyes — for it had gone.
A little circle of light glowed against the parapet near his face. It was cast by a small flash. What were they looking for? A hand appeared in the circle, a hand with long, flexible fingers which held a piece of paper on which there was writing. Did they want him to read, too? Not only watch and hear — but read! He gathered himself together to protest.
Before he could force his stiffened lips to move he felt the upper button of his greatcoat undone72, a hand slipped through the opening and thrust something into his tunic73 pocket just above the heart.
Someone whispered “Lucie de Tocquelain.” What did it mean? That was not the password. There was a great singing in his head — as though he were sinking through water. What was that light that dazzled him even through his closed lids? Painfully he opened his eyes.
Laveller looked straight into the disk of a golden sun slowly setting over a row of noble oaks. Blinded, he dropped his gaze. He was standing ankle-deep in soft, green grass, starred with small clumps74 of blue flowerets. Bees buzzed about in their chalices75. Little yellow-winger butterflies hovered76 over them. A gentle breeze blew, warm and fragrant77.
Oddly he felt no sense of strangeness — then — this was a normal home world — a world as it ought to be. But he remembered that he had once been in another world, far, far unlike this; a place of misery78 and pain, of blood-stained mud and filth79, of cold and wet; a world of cruelty, whose nights were tortured hells of glaring lights and fiery, slaying80 sounds, and tormented men who sought for rest and sleep and found none, and dead who danced. Where was it? Had there ever really been such a world? He was not sleepy now.
He raised his hands and looked at them. They were grimed and cut and stained. He was wearing a greatcoat, wet, mud-bespattered, filthy81. High boots were on his legs. Beside one dirt-incrusted foot lay a cluster of the blue flowerets, half-crushed. He groaned82 in pity, and bent83, striving to raise the broken blossoms.
“'Too many dead now — too many dead,” he whispered; then paused. He had come from that nightmare world! How else in this happy, clean one could he be so unclean?
Of course he had — but where was it? How had he made his way from it here? Ah, there had been a password — what had it been?
He had it: “Lucie de Tocquelain!”
Laveller cried it aloud — still kneeling.
A soft little hand touched his cheek. A low, sweettoned voice caressed84 his ears.
“I am Lucie de Tocquelain,” it said. “And the flowers will grow again — yet it is dear of you to sorrow for them.”
He sprang to his feet. Beside him stood a girl, a slender maid of eighteen, whose hair was a dusky cloud upon her proud little head and in whose great, brown eyes, resting upon his, tenderness and a half-amused pity dwelt.
Peter stood silent, drinking her in — the low, broad, white forehead; the curved, red lips; the rounded, white shoulders, shining through the silken web of her scarf; the whole lithe85, sweet body of her in the clinging, quaintly87 fashioned gown, with its high, clasping girdle.
She was fair enough; but to Peter's starved eyes she was more than that — she was a spring gushing88 from the arid89 desert, the first cool breeze of twilight90 over a heat-drenched isle91, the first glimpse of paradise to a soul fresh risen from centuries of hell. And under the burning worship of his eyes her own dropped; a faint rose stained the white throat, crept to her dark hair.
“I— I am the Demoiselle de Tocquelain, messire,” she murmured. “And you — ”
He recovered his courtesy with a shock. “Laveller — Peter Laveller — is my name, mademoiselle,” he stammered92. “Pardon my rudeness — but how I came here I know not — nor from whence, save that it was — it was a place unlike this. And you — you are so beautiful, mademoiselle!”
The clear eyes raised themselves for a moment, a touch of roguishness in their depths, then dropped demurely94 once more — but the blush deepened.
He watched her, all his awakening95 heart in his eyes; then perplexity awoke, touched him insistently.
“Will you tell me what place this is, mademoiselle,” he faltered96, “and how I came here, if you — ” He stopped. From far, far away, from league upon league of space, a vast weariness was sweeping97 down upon him. He sensed it coming — closer, closer; it touched him; it lapped about him; he was sinking under it; being lost — falling — falling —
Two soft, warm hands gripped his. His tired head dropped upon them. Through the little palms that clasped so tightly pulsed rest and strength. The weariness gathered itself, began to withdraw slowly, so slowly — and was gone!
In its wake followed an ineffable98, an uncontrollable desire to weep — to weep in relief that the weariness had passed, that the devil world whose shadows still lingered in his mind was behind him, and that he was here with this maid. And his tears fell, bathing the little hands.
Did he feel her head bent to his, her lips touch his hair? Peace came to him. He rose shamefacedly.
“I do not know why I wept, mademoiselle — ” he began; and then saw that her white fingers were clasped now in his blackened ones. He released them in sudden panic.
“I am sorry,” he stammered. “I ought not touch you — ”
She reached out swiftly, took his hands again in hers, patted them half savagely99.
Her eyes flashed.
“I do not see them as you do, Messire Pierre,” she answered. “And if I did, are not their stains to me as the stains from hearts of her brave sons on the gonfalons of France? Think no more of your stains save as decorations, messire.”
France — France? Why, that was the name of the world he had left behind; the world where men sought vainly for sleep, and the dead danced.
The dead danced — what did that mean?. He turned wistful eyes to her.
And with a little cry of pity she clung to him for a moment.
“You are so tired — and you are so hungry,” she mourned. “And think no more, nor try to remember, messire, till you have eaten and drunk with us and rested for a space.”
They had turned. And now Laveller saw not far away a chateau. It was pinnacled100 and stately, serene101 in its gray stone and lordly with its spires102 and slender turrets103 thrust skyward from its crest104 like plumes105 flung high from some proud prince's helm. Hand in hand like children the Demoiselle de Tocquelain and Peter
Laveller approached it over the greensward.
“It is my home, messire,” the girl said. “And there among the roses my mother awaits us. My father is away, and he will be sorrowful that he met you not, but you shall meet him when you return.”
He was to return, then? That meant he was not to stay. But where was he to go — whence was he to return? His mind groped blindly; cleared again. He was walking among roses; there were roses everywhere, great, fragrant, opened blooms of scarlets107 and of saffrons, of shell pinks and white; clusters and banks of them, climbing up the terraces, masking the base of the chateau with perfumed tide.
And as he and the maid, still hand in hand, passed between them, they came to a table dressed with snowy napery and pale porcelains108 beneath a bower109.
A woman sat there. She was a little past the prime of life, Peter thought. Her hair, he saw, was powdered white, her cheeks as pink and white as a child's, her eyes the sparkling brown of those of the demoiselle — and gracious — gracious, Peter thought, as some grande dame110 of old France.
The demoiselle dropped her a low curtsy.
“Ma mere93,” she said, “I bring you the Sieur Pierre la Valliere, a very brave and gallant111 gentleman who has come to visit us for a little while.”
The clear eyes of the older woman scanned him, searched him. Then the stately white head bowed, and over the table a delicate hand was stretched toward him.
It was meant for him to kiss, he knew — but he hesitated awkwardly, miserably112, looking at his begrimed own.
“The Sieur Pierre will not see himself as we do,” the girl said in half merry reproof113; then she laughed, a caressing114, golden chiming, “Ma mere, shall he see his hands as we do?”
The white-haired woman smiled and nodded, her eyes kindly115 and, Laveller noted116, with that same pity in them as had been in those of the demoiselle when first he had turned and beheld117 her.
The girl touched Peter's eyes lightly, held his palms up before him — they were white and fine and clean and in some unfamiliar118 way beautiful!
Again the indefinable amaze stifled119 him, but his breeding told. He conquered the sense of strangeness, bowed from the hips120, took the dainty fingers of the stately lady in his, and raised them to his lips.
She struck a silver bell. Through the roses came two tall men in livery, who took from Laveller his greatcoat. They were followed by four small black boys in gay scarlet106 slashed121 with gold. They bore silver platters on which were meat and fine white bread and cakes, fruit, and wine in tall crystal flagons.
And Laveller remembered how hungry he was. But of that feast he remembered little — up to a certain point. He knows that he sat there filled with a happiness and content that surpassed the sum of happiness of all his twenty-five years.
The mother spoke little, but the Demoiselle Lucie and Peter Laveller chattered122 and laughed like children — when they were not silent and drinking each the other in.
And ever in Laveller's heart an adoration123 for this maid, met so perplexingly, grew — grew until it seemed that his heart could not hold his joy. Ever the maid's eyes as they rested on his were softer, more tender, filled with promise; and the proud face beneath the snowy hair became, as it watched them, the essence of that infinitely124 gentle sweetness that is the soul of the madonnas.
At last the Demoiselle de Tocquelain, glancing up and meeting that gaze, blushed, cast down her long lashes125, and hung her head; then raised her eyes bravely.
“Are you content, my mother?” she asked gravely.. “My daughter, I am well content,” came the smiling answer.
Swiftly followed the incredible, the terrible — in that scene of beauty and peace it was, said Laveller, like the flashing forth of a gorilla's' paw upon a virgin's breast, a wail126 from deepest hell lancing through the song of angels.
At his right, among the roses, a light began to gleam — a fitful, flaring127 light that glared and died, glared and died. In it were two shapes. One had an arm clasped about the neck of the other; they leaned embracing in the light, and as it waxed and waned128 they seemed to pirouette, to try to break from it, to dash forward, to return — to dance!
The dead who danced!
A world where men sought rest and sleep, and could find neither, and where even the dead could find no rest, but must dance to the rhythm of the star-shells!
He groaned; sprang to his feet; watched, quivering in every nerve. Girl and woman followed his rigid gaze; turned to him again with tear-filled, pitiful eyes.
“It is nothing!” said the maid. “It is nothing! See — there is nothing there!”
Once more she touched his lids; and the light and the swaying forms were gone. But now Laveller knew. Back into his consciousness rushed the full tide of memory — memory of the mud and the filth, the stenches, and the fiery, slaying sounds, the cruelty, the misery and the hatreds130; memory of torn men and tormented dead; memory of whence he had come, the trenches.
The trenches! He had fallen asleep, and all this was but a dream! He was sleeping at his post, while his comrades were trusting him to watch over them. And those two ghastly shapes among the roses — they were the two Scots on the wires summoning him back to his duty; beckoning131, beckoning him to return. He must waken! He must waken!
Desperately132 he strove to drive himself from his garden of illusion; to force himself back to that devil world which during this hour of enchantment133 had been to his mind only as a fog bank on a far horizon. And as he struggled, the brown-eyed maid and the snowytressed woman watched — with ineffable pity, tears falling.
“The trenches!” gasped134 Laveller. “O God, wake me up! I must get back! O God, make me wake.”
“Am I only a dream, then, ma mie?”
It was the Demoiselle Lucie's voice — a bit piteous, the golden tones shaken.
“I must get back,” he groaned — although at her question his heart seemed to die within him. “Let me wake!”
“Am I a dream?” Now the voice was angry; the demoiselle drew close. “Am I not real?”
A little foot stamped furiously on his, a little hand darted135 out, pinched him viciously close above his elbow. He felt the sting of the pain and rubbed it, gazing at her stupidly.
“Am I a dream, think you?” she murmured, and, raising her palms, set them on his temples, bringing down his head until his eyes looked straight into hers.
Laveller gazed — gazed down, down deep into their depths, lost himself in them, felt his heart rise like the spring from what he saw there. Her warm, sweet breath fanned his cheek; whatever this was, wherever he was — she was no dream!
“But I must return — get back to my trench!” The soldier in him clung to the necessity.
“My son” — it was the mother speaking now — “my son, you are in your. trench.”
Laveller gazed at her, bewildered. His eyes swept the lovely scene about him. When he turned to her again it was with the look of a sorely perplexed child. She smiled.
“Have no fear,” she said. “Everything is well. You are in your trench — but your trench centuries ago; yes, twice a hundred years ago, counting time as you do — and as once we did.”
A chill ran through him. Were they mad? Was he mad? His arm slipped down over a soft shoulder; the touch steadied him.
“And you?” he forced himself to ask. He caught a swift glance between the two, and in answer to some unspoken question the mother nodded. The Demoiselle Lucie pressed soft hands against Peter's face, looked again into his eyes.
“Ma mie,” she said gently, “we have been” — she hesitated — “what you call — dead — to your world these two hundred years!”
But before she had spoken the words Laveller, I think, had sensed what was coming. And if for a fleeting136 instant he had felt a touch of ice in every vein137, it vanished beneath the exaltation that raced through him, vanished as frost beneath a mist-scattering sun. For if this were true — why, then there was no such thing as death! And it was true!
It was true! He knew it with a shining certainty that had upon it not the shadow of a shadow — but how much his desire to believe entered into this certainty who can tell?
He looked at the chateau. Of course! It was that whose ruins loomed138 out of the darkness when the flares split the night — in whose cellars he had longed to sleep. Death — oh, the foolish, fearful hearts of men! — this death? This glorious place of peace and beauty? And this wondrous139 girl whose brown eyes were the keys of heart's desire! Death — he laughed and laughed again.
Another thought struck him, swept through him like a torrent140. He must get back, must get back to the trenches and tell them this great truth he had found. Why, he was like a traveler from a dying world who unwittingly stumbles upon a secret to turn that world dead to hope into a living heaven!
There was no longer need for men to fear the splintering shell, the fire that seared them, the bullets, or the shining steel. What did they matter when this — this — was the truth? He must get back and tell them. Even those two Scots would lie still on the wires when he whispered this to them.
But he forgot — they knew now. But they could not return to tell — as he could. He was wild with joy, exultant141, lifted up to the skies, a demigod — the bearer of a truth that would free the devil-ridden world from its demons142; a new Prometheus who bore back to mankind a more precious flame than had the old.
“I must go!” he cried. “I must tell them! Show me how to return — swiftly!”
A doubt assailed143 him; he pondered it.
“But they may not believe me,” he whispered. “No. I must show them proof. I must carry something back to prove this to them.”
The Lady of Tocquelain smiled. She lifted a little knife from the table and, reaching over to a rose-tree, cut from it a cluster of buds; thrust it toward his eager hand.
Before he could grasp it the maid had taken it.
“Wait!” she murmured. “I will give you another message.”
There was a quill144 and ink upon the table, and Peter wondered how they had come; he had not seen them before — but with so many wonders, what was this small one? There was a slip of paper in the Demoiselle Lucie's hand, too. She bent her little, dusky head and wrote; blew upon the paper, waved it in the air to dry; sighed, smiled at Peter, and wrapped it about the stem of the rosebud145 cluster; placed it on the table, and waved back Peter's questing hand.
“Your coat,” she said. “You'll need it — for now you must go back.”
She thrust his arms into the garment. She was laughing — but there were tears in the great, brown eyes; the red mouth was very wistful.
Now the older woman arose, stretched out her hand again; Laveller bent over it, kissed it.
“We shall be here waiting for you, my son,” she said softly. “When it is time for you to — come back.”
He reached for the roses with the paper wrapped about their stem. The maid darted a hand over his, lifted them before he could touch them.
“You must not read it until you have gone,” she said — and again the rose flame burned throat and cheeks.
Hand in hand, like children, they sped over the greensward to where Peter had first met her. There they stopped, regarding each other gravely — and then that other miracle which had happened to Laveller and that he had forgotten in the shock of his wider realization146 called for utterance147.
“I love you!” whispared Peter Laveller to this living, long-dead Demoiselle de Tocquelain.
She sighed, and was in his arms.
“Oh, I know you do!” she cried. “I know you do, dear one — but I was so afraid you would go without telling-me so.”
She raised her sweet lips, pressed them long to his; drew back.
“I loved you from the moment I saw you standing here,” she told him, “and I will be here waiting for you when you return. And now you must go, dear love of mine; but wait — ”
He felt a hand steal into the pocket of his tunic, press something over his heart.
“The messages,” she said. “Take them. And remember — I will wait. I promise. I, Lucie de Tocquelain — ”
There was a singing in his head. He opened his eyes. He was back in his trench, and in his ears still rang the name of the demoiselle, and over his heart he felt still the pressure of her hand. His head was half turned toward three men who were regarding him.
One of them had a watch in his hand; it was the surgeon. Why was he looking at his watch? Had he been gone long? he wondered.
Well, what did it matter, when he was the bearer of such a message? His weariness had gone; he was transformed, jubilant; his soul was shouting paeans148. Forgetting discipline, he sprang toward the three.
“There is no such thing as death!” be cried. “We must send this message along the lines — at once! At once, do you understand! Tell it to the world — I have proof — ”
He stammered and choked in his eagerness. The three glanced at each other. His major lifted his electric flash, clicked it in Peter's face, started oddly — then quietly walked over and stood between the lad and his rifle.
“Just get your breath a moment, my boy, and then tell us all about it,” he said.
They were devilishly unconcerned, were they not? Well, wait till they had heard what he had to tell them!
And tell them Peter did, leaving out only what had passed between him and the demoiselle — for, after all, wasn't that their own personal affair? And gravely and silently they listened to him. But always the trouble deepened in his major's eyes as Laveller poured forth the story.
“And then — I came back, came back as quickly as I could, to help us all; to lift us out of all this” — his hands swept out in a wide gesture of disgust — “for none of it matters! When we die — we live!” he ended.
Upon the face of the man of science rested profound satisfaction.
“A perfect demonstration149; better than I could ever have hoped!” he spoke over Laveller's head to the major. “Great, how great is the imagination of man!”
There was a tinge150 of awe151 in his voice.
Imagination? Peter was cut to the sensitive, vibrant152 soul of him.
They didn't believe him! He would show them!
“But I have the proof!” he cried.
He threw open his greatcoat, ran his hand into his tunic-pocket; his fingers closed over a bit of paper wrapped around a stem. Ah — now he would show them!
He drew it out, thrust it toward them.
“Look!” His voice was like a triumphal trumpet-call.
What was the matter with them? Could they not see? Why did their eyes search his face instead of realizing what he was offering them? He looked at what he held — then, incredulous; brought it close to his own eyesgazed and gazed, with a sound in his ears as though the universe were slipping away around him, with a heart that seemed to have forgotten to beat. For in his hand, stem wrapped in paper, was no fresh and fragrant rosebud cluster his brown-eyed demoiselle's mother had clipped for him in the garden.
No — there was but a sprig of artificial buds, worn and torn and stained, faded and old!
A great numbness153 crept over Peter.
Dumbly he looked at the surgeon, at his captain, at the major whose face was now troubled indeed and somewhat stern.
“What does it mean?” he muttered.
Had it all been a dream? Was there no radiant Lucie — save in his own mind — no brown-eyed maid who loved him and whom he loved?
The scientist stepped forward, took the worn little sprig from the relaxed grip. The bit of paper slipped off, remained in Peter's fingers.
“You certainly deserve to know just what you've been through, my boy,” the urbane154, capable voice beat upon his dulled hearing, “after such a reaction as you have provided to our little experiment.” He laughed pleasantly.
Experiment? Experiment? A dull rage began to grow in Peter — vicious, slowly rising.
“Messieur!” called the major appealingly, somewhat warningly, it seemed, to his distinguished155 visitor.
“Oh, by your leave, major,” went on the great man, “here is a lad of high intelligence — of education, you could know that by the way he expressed himself — he will understand.”
The major was not a scientist — he was a Frenchman, human, and with an imagination of his own. He shrugged156; but he moved a little closer to the resting rifle.
“We had been discussing, your officers and I,” the capable voice went on, “dreams that are the halfawakened mind's effort to explain some touch, some unfamiliar sound, or what not that has aroused it from its sleep. One is slumbering157, say, and a window nearby is broken. The sleeper158 hears, the consciousness endeavors to learn — but it has given over its control to the subconscious. And this rises accommodatingly to its mate's assistance. But it is irresponsible, and it can express itself only in pictures.
“It takes the sound and — well, weaves a little romance around it. It does its best to explain — alas159! Its best is only a more or less fantastic lie — recognized as such by the consciousness the moment it becomes awake.
“And the movement of the subconsciousness in this picture production is inconceivably rapid. It can depict160 in the fraction of a second a series of incidents that if actually lived would take hours — yes, days — of time. You follow me, do you not? Perhaps you recognize the experience I outline?”
Laveller nodded. The bitter, consuming rage was mounting within him steadily. But he was outwardly calm, all alert. He would hear what this self-satisfied devil had done to him, and then —
“Your officers disagreed with some of my conclusions. I saw you here, weary, concentrated upon the duty at hand, half in hypnosis from the strain and the steady flaring and dying of the lights. You offered a perfect clinical subject, a laboratory test unexcelled — ”
Could he keep his hands from his throat until he had finished? Laveller wondered. Lucie, his Lucie, a fantastic lie —
“Steady, mon vieux” — it was his major whispering. Ah, when he struck, he must do it quickly — his officer was too close, too close. Still — he must keep his watch for him through the slit. He would be peering there, perhaps, when he, Peter, leaped.
“And so” — the surgeon's tones were in his best student-clinic manner — “and so I took a little sprig of artificial flowers that I had found pressed between the leaves of an old missal I had picked up in the ruins of the chateau yonder. On a slip of paper I wrote a line of French — for then I thought you a French soldier. It was a simple line from the ballad161 of Aucassin and Nicolette —
And there she waits to greet him when all his days are run.
“Also, there was a name written on the title-page of the missal, the name, no doubt, of its long-dead owner — 'Lucie de Tocquelain' — ”
Lucie! Peter's rage and hatred129 were beaten back by a great surge of longing162 — rushed back stronger than ever.
“So I passed the sprig of flowers before your unseeing eyes; consciously unseeing, I mean, for it was certain your subconsciousness would take note of them. I showed you the line of writing — your subconsciousness absorbed this, too, with its suggestion of a love troth, a separation, an awaiting. I wrapped it about the stem of the sprig, I thrust them both into your pocket, and called the name of Lucie de Tocquelain into your ear.
“The problem was what your other self would make of those four things — the ancient cluster, the suggestion in the line of writing, the touch, and the name — a fascinating problem, indeed!
“And hardly had I withdrawn163 my hand, almost before my lips closed on the word I had whispered — you had turned to us shouting that there was no such thing as death, and pouring out, like one inspired, that remarkable164 story of yours — all, all built by your imagination from — ”
But he got no further. The searing rage in Laveller had burst all bounds, had flared forth murderously and hurled him silently at the surgeon's throat. There were flashes of flame before his eyes — red, sparkling sheets of flame. He would die for it, but he would kill this cold-blooded fiend who could take a man out of hell, open up to him heaven, and then thrust him back into hell grown now a hundred times more cruel, with all hope dead in him for eternity165.
Before he could strike strong hands gripped him, held him fast. The scarlet, curtained flares before his eyes faded away. He thought he heard a tender, golden voice whispering to him:
“It is nothing! It is nothing! See as I do!”
He was standing between his officers, who held him fast on each side. They were silent, looking at the now white-faced surgeon with more than somewhat of cold, unfriendly sternness in their eyes.
“My boy, my boy” — that scientist's poise166 was gone; his voice trembling, agitated167. “I did not understand — I am sorry — I never thought you would take it so seriously.”
Laveller spoke to his officers — quietly. “It is over, sirs. You need not hold me.”
They looked at him, released him, patted him on the shoulder, fixed168 again their visitor with that same utter contempt.
Laveller turned stumblingly to the parapet. His eyes were full of tears. Brain and heart and soul were nothing but a blind desolation, a waste utterly barren of hope or of even the ghost of the wish to hope. That message of his, the sacred truth that was to set the feet of a tormented world on the path to paradise — a dream.
His Lucie, his brown-eyed demoiselle who had murmured her love for him — a thing compounded of a word, a touch, a writing, and an artificial flower!
He could not, would not believe it. Why, he could feel still the touch of her soft lips on his, her warm body quivering in his arms. And she had said he would come back — and promised to wait for him.
What was that in his hand? It was the paper that had wrapped the rosebuds169 — the cursed paper with which that cold devil had experimented with him.
Laveller crumpled170 it savagely — raised it to hurl47 it at his feet.
Someone seemed to stay his hand.
Slowly he opened it.
The three men watching him saw a glory steal over his face, a radiance like that of a soul redeemed171 from endless torture. All its sorrow, its agony, was wiped out, leaving it a boy's once more.
He stood wide-eyed, dreaming.
The major stepped forward, gently drew the paper from Laveller.
There were many star-shells floating on high now, the trench was filled with their glare, and in their light he scanned the fragment.
On his face when he raised it there was a great awe — and as they took it from him and read this same awe dropped down upon the others like a veil.
For over the line the surgeon had written were now three other lines — in old French —
Nor grieve, dear heart, nor fear the seeming — Here is waking after dreaming.
She who loves you, Lucie.
That was McAndrews's story, and it was Hawtry who finally broke the silence that followed his telling of it.
“The lines had been on the paper, of course,” he said; “they were probably faint, and your surgeon had not noticed them. It was drizzling172, and the dampness brought them out.”
“No,” answered McAndrews; “they had not been there.”
“But how can you be so sure?” remonstrated173 the Psychologist.
“Because I was the surgeon,” said McAndrews Quietly. “The paper was a page torn from my note book. When I wrapped it about the sprig it was blank — except for the line I myself had written there.
“But there was one more bit of — well, shall we call it evidence, John? — the hand in which Laveller's message was penned was the hand in the missal in which I had found the flowers — and the signature 'Lucie' was that same signature, curve for curve and quaint86, oldfashioned angle for angle.”
A longer silence fell, broken once more by Hawtry, abruptly174.
“What became of the paper?” he asked. “Was the ink analyzed175? Was — ”
“As we stood there wondering,” interrupted McAndrews, “a squall swept down upon the trench. It tore the paper from my hand; carried it away. Laveller watched it go; made no effort to get it.”
“'It does not matter. I know now,' he said — and smiled at me, the forgiving, happy smile of a joyous176 boy. 'I apologize to you, doctor. You're the best friend I ever had. I thought at first you had done to me what no other man would do to another — I see now that you have done for me what no other man could.'
“And that is all. He went through the war neither seeking death nor avoiding it. I loved him like a son. He would have died after that Mount Kemmel affair had it not been for me. He wanted to live long enough to bid his father and sister goodby, and I— patched him up. He did it, and then set forth for the trench beneath the shadow of the ruined old chateau where his brown-eyed demoiselle had found him.”
“Why?” asked Hawtry.
“Because he thought that from there he could — go back — to her more quickly.”
“To me an absolutely unwarranted conclusion,” said the psychologist, wholly irritated, half angry. “There is some simple, natural explanation of it all.”
“Of course, John,” answered McAndrews soothingly177 — “of course there is. Tell us it, can't you?”
But Hawtry, it seemed, could not offer any particulars.
收听单词发音 |
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surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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psychical
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| adj.有关特异功能现象的；有关特异功能官能的；灵魂的；心灵的 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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crescendo
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| n.(音乐)渐强，高潮 | |
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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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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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rift
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| n.裂口，隙缝，切口；v.裂开，割开，渗入 | |
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besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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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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portents
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| n.预兆( portent的名词复数 )；征兆；怪事；奇物 | |
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apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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analyst
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| n.分析家，化验员；心理分析学家 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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irrelevantly
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| adv.不恰当地，不合适地；不相关地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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abrogated
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| 废除（法律等）( abrogate的过去式和过去分词 )； 取消； 去掉； 抛开 | |
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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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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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periscope
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| n. 潜望镜 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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sector
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| n.部门，部分；防御地段，防区；扇形 | |
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entanglements
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| n.瓜葛( entanglement的名词复数 )；牵连；纠缠；缠住 | |
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hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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ration
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| n.定量(pl.)给养，口粮；vt.定量供应 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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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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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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flares
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| n.喇叭裤v.（使）闪耀( flare的第三人称单数 )；（使）（船舷）外倾；（使）鼻孔张大；（使）（衣裙、酒杯等）呈喇叭形展开 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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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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riddling
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| adj.谜一样的，解谜的n.筛选 | |
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sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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subconsciousness
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| 潜意识；下意识 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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chalices
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| n.高脚酒杯( chalice的名词复数 )；圣餐杯；金杯毒酒；看似诱人实则令人讨厌的事物 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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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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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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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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83
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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84
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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86
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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87
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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88
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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89
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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90
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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91
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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92
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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94
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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95
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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96
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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97
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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98
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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99
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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100
pinnacled
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| 小尖塔般耸立的，顶处的 | |
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101
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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102
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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103
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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104
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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105
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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106
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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107
scarlets
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| 鲜红色，猩红色( scarlet的名词复数 ) | |
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108
porcelains
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| n.瓷，瓷器( porcelain的名词复数 ) | |
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109
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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110
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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111
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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112
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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113
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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114
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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115
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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116
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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117
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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118
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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119
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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120
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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121
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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122
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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123
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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124
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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125
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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126
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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127
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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128
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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129
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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130
hatreds
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| n.仇恨，憎恶( hatred的名词复数 )；厌恶的事 | |
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131
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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132
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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133
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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134
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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135
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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136
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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137
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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138
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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139
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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140
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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141
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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142
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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143
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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144
quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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145
rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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146
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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147
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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148
paeans
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| n.赞歌，凯歌( paean的名词复数 ) | |
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149
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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150
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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151
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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152
vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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153
numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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154
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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155
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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156
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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157
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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158
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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159
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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160
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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161
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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162
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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163
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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164
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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165
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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166
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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167
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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168
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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169
rosebuds
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| 蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女，初入社交界的少女( rosebud的名词复数 ) | |
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170
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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171
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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172
drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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173
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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174
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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175
analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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176
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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177
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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