Thus barred from him, depressed5 in the thought of Fern, Carol was suddenly and for the first time convinced that she loved Erik.
She told herself a thousand inspiriting things which he would say if he had the opportunity; for them she admired him, loved him. But she was afraid to summon him. He understood, he did not come. She forgot her every doubt of him, and her discomfort6 in his background. Each day it seemed impossible to get through the desolation of not seeing him. Each morning, each afternoon, each evening was a compartment7 divided from all other units of time, distinguished8 by a sudden “Oh! I want to see Erik!” which was as devastating9 as though she had never said it before.
There were wretched periods when she could not picture him. Usually he stood out in her mind in some little moment — glancing up from his preposterous10 pressing-iron, or running on the beach with Dave Dyer. But sometimes he had vanished; he was only an opinion. She worried then about his appearance: Weren’t his wrists too large and red? Wasn’t his nose a snub, like so many Scandinavians? Was he at all the graceful11 thing she had fancied? When she encountered him on the street she was as much reassuring12 herself as rejoicing in his presence. More disturbing than being unable to visualize13 him was the darting14 remembrance of some intimate aspect: his face as they had walked to the boat together at the picnic; the ruddy light on his temples, neck-cords, flat cheeks.
On a November evening when Kennicott was in the country she answered the bell and was confused to find Erik at the door, stooped, imploring15, his hands in the pockets of his topcoat. As though he had been rehearsing his speech he instantly besought16:
“Saw your husband driving away. I’ve got to see you. I can’t stand it. Come for a walk. I know! People might see us. But they won’t if we hike into the country. I’ll wait for you by the elevator. Take as long as you want to — oh, come quick!”
“In a few minutes,” she promised.
She murmured, “I’ll just talk to him for a quarter of an hour and come home.” She put an her tweed coat and rubber overshoes, considering how honest and hopeless are rubbers, how clearly their chaperonage proved that she wasn’t going to a lovers’ tryst17.
She found him in the shadow of the grain-elevator, sulkily kicking at a rail of the side-track. As she came toward him she fancied that his whole body expanded. But he said nothing, nor she; he patted her sleeve, she returned the pat, and they crossed the railroad tracks, found a road, clumped18 toward open country.
“Chilly night, but I like this melancholy20 gray,” he said.
“Yes.”
They passed a moaning clump19 of trees and splashed along the wet road. He tucked her hand into the side-pocket of his overcoat. She caught his thumb and, sighing, held it exactly as Hugh held hers when they went walking. She thought about Hugh. The current maid was in for the evening, but was it safe to leave the baby with her? The thought was distant and elusive21.
Erik began to talk, slowly, revealingly. He made for her a picture of his work in a large tailor shop in Minneapolis: the steam and heat, and the drudgery22; the men in darned vests and crumpled23 trousers, men who “rushed growlers of beer” and were cynical24 about women, who laughed at him and played jokes on him. “But I didn’t mind, because I could keep away from them outside. I used to go to the Art Institute and the Walker Gallery, and tramp clear around Lake Harriet, or hike out to the Gates house and imagine it was a chateau25 in Italy and I lived in it. I was a marquis and collected tapestries26 — that was after I was wounded in Padua. The only really bad time was when a tailor named Finkelfarb found a diary I was trying to keep and he read it aloud in the shop — it was a bad fight.” He laughed. “I got fined five dollars. But that’s all gone now. Seems as though you stand between me and the gas stoves — the long flames with mauve edges, licking up around the irons and making that sneering27 sound all day — aaaaah!”
Her fingers tightened28 about his thumb as she perceived the hot low room, the pounding of pressing-irons, the reek29 of scorched30 cloth, and Erik among giggling31 gnomes32. His fingertip crept through the opening of her glove and smoothed her palm. She snatched her hand away, stripped off her glove, tucked her hand back into his.
He was saying something about a “wonderful person.” In her tranquillity33 she let the words blow by and heeded34 only the beating wings of his voice.
She was conscious that he was fumbling35 for impressive speech.
“Say, uh — Carol, I’ve written a poem about you.”
“That’s nice. Let’s hear it.”
“Damn it, don’t be so casual about it! Can’t you take me seriously?”
“My dear boy, if I took you seriously ——! I don’t want us to be hurt more than — more than we will be. Tell me the poem. I’ve never had a poem written about me!”
“It isn’t really a poem. It’s just some words that I love because it seems to me they catch what you are. Of course probably they won’t seem so to anybody else, but —— Well ——
Little and tender and merry and wise
With eyes that meet my eyes.
Do you get the idea the way I do?”
“Yes! I’m terribly grateful!” And she was grateful — while she impersonally36 noted37 how bad a verse it was.
She was aware of the haggard beauty in the lowering night. Monstrous38 tattered39 clouds sprawled40 round a forlorn moon; puddles41 and rocks glistened42 with inner light. They were passing a grove43 of scrub poplars, feeble by day but looming44 now like a menacing wall. She stopped. They heard the branches dripping, the wet leaves sullenly45 plumping on the soggy earth.
“Waiting — waiting — everything is waiting,” she whispered. She drew her hand from his, pressed her clenched46 fingers against her lips. She was lost in the somberness. “I am happy — so we must go home, before we have time to become unhappy. But can’t we sit on a log for a minute and just listen?”
“No. Too wet. But I wish we could build a fire, and you could sit on my overcoat beside it. I’m a grand fire-builder! My cousin Lars and me spent a week one time in a cabin way up in the Big Woods, snowed in. The fireplace was filled with a dome47 of ice when we got there, but we chopped it out, and jammed the thing full of pine-boughs. Couldn’t we build a fire back here in the woods and sit by it for a while?”
She pondered, half-way between yielding and refusal. Her head ached faintly. She was in abeyance48. Everything, the night, his silhouette49, the cautious-treading future, was as undistinguishable as though she were drifting bodiless in a Fourth Dimension. While her mind groped, the lights of a motor car swooped50 round a bend in the road, and they stood farther apart. “What ought I to do?” she mused51. “I think —— Oh, I won’t be robbed! I AM good! If I’m so enslaved that I can’t sit by the fire with a man and talk, then I’d better be dead!”
The lights of the thrumming car grew magically; were upon them; abruptly52 stopped. From behind the dimness of the windshield a voice, annoyed, sharp: “Hello there!”
She realized that it was Kennicott.
The irritation53 in his voice smoothed out. “Having a walk?”
They made schoolboyish sounds of assent54.
“Pretty wet, isn’t it? Better ride back. Jump up in front here, Valborg.”
His manner of swinging open the door was a command. Carol was conscious that Erik was climbing in, that she was apparently55 to sit in the back, and that she had been left to open the rear door for herself. Instantly the wonder which had flamed to the gusty56 skies was quenched57, and she was Mrs. W. P. Kennicott of Gopher Prairie, riding in a squeaking58 old car, and likely to be lectured by her husband.
She feared what Kennicott would say to Erik. She bent59 toward them. Kennicott was observing, “Going to have some rain before the night ‘s over, all right.”
“Yes,” said Erik.
“Been funny season this year, anyway. Never saw it with such a cold October and such a nice November. ‘Member we had a snow way back on October ninth! But it certainly was nice up to the twenty-first, this month — as I remember it, not a flake60 of snow in November so far, has there been? But I shouldn’t wonder if we’d be having some snow ‘most any time now.”
“Yes, good chance of it,” said Erik.
“Wish I’d had more time to go after the ducks this fall. By golly, what do you think?” Kennicott sounded appealing. “Fellow wrote me from Man Trap Lake that he shot seven mallards and couple of canvas-back in one hour!”
“That must have been fine,” said Erik.
Carol was ignored. But Kennicott was blustrously cheerful. He shouted to a farmer, as he slowed up to pass the frightened team, “There we are — schon gut61!” She sat back, neglected, frozen, unheroic heroine in a drama insanely undramatic. She made a decision resolute62 and enduring. She would tell Kennicott —— What would she tell him? She could not say that she loved Erik. DID she love him? But she would have it out. She was not sure whether it was pity for Kennicott’s blindness, or irritation at his assumption that he was enough to fill any woman’s life, which prompted her, but she knew that she was out of the trap, that she could be frank; and she was exhilarated with the adventure of it. . .while in front he was entertaining Erik:
“Nothing like an hour on a duck-pass to make you relish64 your victuals65 and —— Gosh, this machine hasn’t got the power of a fountain pen. Guess the cylinders66 are jam-cram-full of carbon again. Don’t know but what maybe I’ll have to put in another set of piston-rings.”
He stopped on Main Street and clucked hospitably67, “There, that’ll give you just a block to walk. G’ night.”
Carol was in suspense68. Would Erik sneak69 away?
He stolidly70 moved to the back of the car, thrust in his hand, muttered, “Good night — Carol. I’m glad we had our walk.” She pressed his hand. The car was flapping on. He was hidden from her — by a corner drug store on Main Street!
Kennicott did not recognize her till he drew up before the house. Then he condescended71, “Better jump out here and I’ll take the boat around back. Say, see if the back door is unlocked, will you?” She unlatched the door for him. She realized that she still carried the damp glove she had stripped off for Erik. She drew it on. She stood in the center of the living-room, unmoving, in damp coat and muddy rubbers. Kennicott was as opaque72 as ever. Her task wouldn’t be anything so lively as having to endure a scolding, but only an exasperating73 effort to command his attention so that he would understand the nebulous things she had to tell him, instead of interrupting her by yawning, winding74 the clock, and going up to bed. She heard him shoveling coal into the furnace. He came through the kitchen energetically, but before he spoke75 to her he did stop in the hall, did wind the clock.
He sauntered into the living-room and his glance passed from her drenched76 hat to her smeared77 rubbers. She could hear — she could hear, see, taste, smell, touch — his “Better take your coat off, Carrie; looks kind of wet.” Yes, there it was:
“Well, Carrie, you better ——” He chucked his own coat on a chair, stalked to her, went on with a rising tingling78 voice, “—— you better cut it out now. I’m not going to do the out- raged husband stunt79. I like you and I respect you, and I’d probably look like a boob if I tried to be dramatic. But I think it’s about time for you and Valborg to call a halt before you get in Dutch, like Fern Mullins did.”
“Do you ——”
“Course. I know all about it. What d’ you expect in a town that’s as filled with busybodies, that have plenty of time to stick their noses into other folks’ business, as this is? Not that they’ve had the nerve to do much tattling to me, but they’ve hinted around a lot, and anyway, I could see for myself that you liked him. But of course I knew how cold you were, I knew you wouldn’t stand it even if Valborg did try to hold your hand or kiss you, so I didn’t worry. But same time, I hope you don’t suppose this husky young Swede farmer is as innocent and Platonic80 and all that stuff as you are! Wait now, don’t get sore! I’m not knocking him. He isn’t a bad sort. And he’s young and likes to gas about books. Course you like him. That isn’t the real rub. But haven’t you just seen what this town can do, once it goes and gets moral on you, like it did with Fern? You probably think that two young folks making love are alone if anybody ever is, but there’s nothing in this town that you don’t do in company with a whole lot of uninvited but awful interested guests. Don’t you realize that if Ma Westlake and a few others got started they’d drive you up a tree, and you’d find yourself so well advertised as being in love with this Valborg fellow that you’d HAVE to be, just to spite ’em!”
“Let me sit down,” was all Carol could say. She drooped81 on the couch, wearily, without elasticity82.
He yawned, “Gimme your coat and rubbers,” and while she stripped them off he twiddled his watch-chain, felt the radiator83, peered at the thermometer. He shook out her wraps in the hall, hung them up with exactly his usual care. He pushed a chair near to her and sat bolt up. He looked like a physician about to give sound and undesired advice.
Before he could launch into his heavy discourse84 she desperately85 got in, “Please! I want you to know that I was going to tell you everything, tonight.”
“Well, I don’t suppose there’s really much to tell.”
“But there is. I’m fond of Erik. He appeals to something in here.” She touched her breast. “And I admire him. He isn’t just a ‘young Swede farmer.’ He’s an artist ——”
“Wait now! He’s had a chance all evening to tell you what a whale of a fine fellow he is. Now it’s my turn. I can’t talk artistic86, but —— Carrie, do you understand my work?” He leaned forward, thick capable hands on thick sturdy thighs87, mature and slow, yet beseeching88. “No matter even if you are cold, I like you better than anybody in the world. One time I said that you were my soul. And that still goes. You’re all the things that I see in a sunset when I’m driving in from the country, the things that I like but can’t make poetry of. Do you realize what my job is? I go round twenty-four hours a day, in mud and blizzard89, trying my damnedest to heal everybody, rich or poor. You — that ‘re always spieling about how scientists ought to rule the world, instead of a bunch of spread-eagle politicians — can’t you see that I’m all the science there is here? And I can stand the cold and the bumpy91 roads and the lonely rides at night. All I need is to have you here at home to welcome me. I don’t expect you to be passionate92 — not any more I don’t — but I do expect you to appreciate my work. I bring babies into the world, and save lives, and make cranky husbands quit being mean to their wives. And then you go and moon over a Swede tailor because he can talk about how to put ruchings on a skirt! Hell of a thing for a man to fuss over!”
She flew out at him: “You make your side clear. Let me give mine. I admit all you say — except about Erik. But is it only you, and the baby, that want me to back you up, that demand things from me? They’re all on me, the whole town! I can feel their hot breaths on my neck! Aunt Bessie and that horrible slavering old Uncle Whittier and Juanita and Mrs. Westlake and Mrs. Bogart and all of them. And you welcome them, you encourage them to drag me down into their cave! I won’t stand it! Do you hear? Now, right now, I’m done. And it’s Erik who gives me the courage. You say he just thinks about ruches (which do not usually go on skirts, by the way!). I tell you he thinks about God, the God that Mrs. Bogart covers up with greasy94 gingham wrappers! Erik will be a great man some day, and if I could contribute one tiny bit to his success ——”
“Wait, wait, wait now! Hold up! You’re assuming that your Erik will make good. As a matter of fact, at my age he’ll be running a one-man tailor shop in some burg about the size of Schoenstrom.”
“He will not!”
“That’s what he’s headed for now all right, and he’s twenty- five or — six and —— What’s he done to make you think he’ll ever be anything but a pants-presser?”
“He has sensitiveness and talent ——”
“Wait now! What has he actually done in the art line? Has he done one first-class picture or — sketch95, d’ you call it? Or one poem, or played the piano, or anything except gas about what he’s going to do?”
She looked thoughtful.
“Then it’s a hundred to one shot that he never will. Way I understand it, even these fellows that do something pretty good at home and get to go to art school, there ain’t more than one out of ten of ’em, maybe one out of a hundred, that ever get above grinding out a bum90 living — about as artistic as plumbing96. And when it comes down to this tailor, why, can’t you see — you that take on so about psychology97 — can’t you see that it’s just by contrast with folks like Doc McGanum or Lym Cass that this fellow seems artistic? Suppose you’d met up with him first in one of these reg’lar New York studios! You wouldn’t notice him any more ‘n a rabbit!”
She huddled98 over folded hands like a temple virgin99 shivering on her knees before the thin warmth of a brazier. She could not answer.
Kennicott rose quickly, sat on the couch, took both her hands. “Suppose he fails — as he will! Suppose he goes back to tailoring, and you’re his wife. Is that going to be this artistic life you’ve been thinking about? He’s in some bum shack100, pressing pants all day, or stooped over sewing, and having to be polite to any grouch101 that blows in and jams a dirty stinking102 old suit in his face and says, ‘Here you, fix this, and be blame quick about it.’ He won’t even have enough savvy103 to get him a big shop. He’ll pike along doing his own work — unless you, his wife, go help him, go help him in the shop, and stand over a table all day, pushing a big heavy iron. Your complexion104 will look fine after about fifteen years of baking that way, won’t it! And you’ll be humped over like an old hag. And probably you’ll live in one room back of the shop. And then at night — oh, you’ll have your artist — sure! He’ll come in stinking of gasoline, and cranky from hard work, and hinting around that if it hadn’t been for you, he’d of gone East and been a great artist. Sure! And you’ll be entertaining his relatives —— Talk about Uncle Whit93! You’ll be having some old Axel Axelberg coming in with manure105 on his boots and sitting down to supper in his socks and yelling at you, ‘Hurry up now, you vimmin make me sick!’ Yes, and you’ll have a squalling brat106 every year, tugging107 at you while you press clothes, and you won’t love ’em like you do Hugh up-stairs, all downy and asleep ——”
“Please! Not any more!”
Her face was on his knee.
He bent to kiss her neck. “I don’t want to be unfair. I guess love is a great thing, all right. But think it would stand much of that kind of stuff? Oh, honey, am I so bad? Can’t you like me at all? I’ve — I’ve been so fond of you!”
She snatched up his hand, she kissed it. Presently she sobbed108, “I won’t ever see him again. I can’t, now. The hot living-room behind the tailor shop —— I don’t love him enough for that. And you are —— Even if I were sure of him, sure he was the real thing, I don’t think I could actually leave you. This marriage, it weaves people together. It’s not easy to break, even when it ought to be broken.”
“And do you want to break it?”
“No!”
He lifted her, carried her up-stairs, laid her on her bed, turned to the door.
“Come kiss me,” she whimpered.
He kissed her lightly and slipped away. For an hour she heard him moving about his room, lighting109 a cigar, drumming with his knuckles110 on a chair. She felt that he was a bulwark111 between her and the darkness that grew thicker as the delayed storm came down in sleet112.
II
He was cheery and more casual than ever at breakfast. All day she tried to devise a way of giving Erik up. Telephone? The village central would unquestionably “listen in.” A letter? It might be found. Go to see him? Impossible. That evening Kennicott gave her, without comment, an envelope. The letter was signed “E. V.”
I know I can’t do anything but make trouble for you, I think. I am going to Minneapolis tonight and from there as soon as I can either to New York or Chicago. I will do as big things as I can. I I can’t write I love you too much God keep you.
Until she heard the whistle which told her that the Minneapolis train was leaving town, she kept herself from thinking, from moving. Then it was all over. She had no plan nor desire for anything.
When she caught Kennicott looking at her over his newspaper she fled to his arms, thrusting the paper aside, and for the first time in years they were lovers. But she knew that she still had no plan in life, save always to go along the same streets, past the same people, to the same shops.
III
A week after Erik’s going the maid startled her by announcing, “There’s a Mr. Valborg down-stairs say he vant to see you.”
She was conscious of the maid’s interested stare, angry at this shattering of the calm in which she had hidden. She crept down, peeped into the living-room. It was not Erik Valborg who stood there; it was a small, gray-bearded, yellow- faced man in mucky boots, canvas jacket, and red mittens113. He glowered114 at her with shrewd red eyes.
“You de doc’s wife?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Adolph Valborg, from up by Jefferson. I’m Erik’s father.”
“Oh!” He was a monkey-faced little man, and not gentle.
“What you done wit’ my son?”
“I don’t think I understand you.”
“I t’ink you’re going to understand before I get t’rough! Where is he?”
“Why, really —— I presume that he’s in Minneapolis.”
“You presume!” He looked through her with a contemptuousness such as she could not have imagined. Only an insane contortion115 of spelling could portray116 his lyric117 whine118, his mangled119 consonants120. He clamored, “Presume! Dot’s a fine word! I don’t want no fine words and I don’t want no more lies! I want to know what you KNOW!”
“See here, Mr. Valborg, you may stop this bullying121 right now. I’m not one of your farmwomen. I don’t know where your son is, and there’s no reason why I should know.” Her defiance123 ran out in face of his immense flaxen stolidity124. He raised his fist, worked up his anger with the gesture, and sneered125:
“You dirty city women wit’ your fine ways and fine dresses! A father come here trying to save his boy from wickedness, and you call him a bully122! By God, I don’t have to take nothin’ off you nor your husband! I ain’t one of your hired men. For one time a woman like you is going to hear de trut’ about what you are, and no fine city words to it, needer.”
“Really, Mr. Valborg ——”
“What you done wit’ him? Heh? I’ll yoost tell you what you done! He was a good boy, even if he was a damn fool. I want him back on de farm. He don’t make enough money tailoring. And I can’t get me no hired man! I want to take him back on de farm. And you butt2 in and fool wit’ him and make love wit’ him, and get him to run away!”
“You are lying! It’s not true that —— It’s not true, and if it were, you would have no right to speak like this.”
“Don’t talk foolish. I know. Ain’t I heard from a fellow dot live right here in town how you been acting126 wit’ de boy? I know what you done! Walking wit’ him in de country! Hiding in de woods wit’ him! Yes and I guess you talk about religion in de woods! Sure! Women like you — you’re worse dan street-walkers! Rich women like you, wit’ fine husbands and no decent work to do — and me, look at my hands, look how I work, look at those hands! But you, oh God no, you mustn’t work, you’re too fine to do decent work. You got to play wit’ young fellows, younger as you are, laughing and rolling around and acting like de animals! You let my son alone, d’ you hear?” He was shaking his fist in her face. She could smell the manure and sweat. “It ain’t no use talkin’ to women like you. Get no trut’ out of you. But next time I go by your husband!”
He was marching into the hall. Carol flung herself on him, her clenching127 hand on his hayseed-dusty shoulder. “You horrible old man, you’ve always tried to turn Erik into a slave, to fatten128 your pocketbook! You’ve sneered at him, and overworked him, and probably you’ve succeeded in preventing his ever rising above your muck-heap! And now because you can’t drag him back, you come here to vent63 —— Go tell my husband, go tell him, and don’t blame me when he kills you, when my husband kills you — he will kill you ——”
The man grunted129, looked at her impassively, said one word, and walked out.
She heard the word very plainly.
She did not quite reach the couch. Her knees gave way, she pitched forward. She heard her mind saying, “You haven’t fainted. This is ridiculous. You’re simply dramatizing yourself. Get up.” But she could not move. When Kennicott arrived she was lying on the couch. His step quickened. “What’s happened, Carrie? You haven’t got a bit of blood in your face.”
She clutched his arm. “You’ve got to be sweet to me, and kind! I’m going to California — mountains, sea. Please don’t argue about it, because I’m going.”
Quietly, “All right. We’ll go. You and I. Leave the kid here with Aunt Bessie.”
“Now!”
“Well yes, just as soon as we can get away. Now don’t talk any more. Just imagine you’ve already started.” He smoothed her hair, and not till after supper did he continue: “I meant it about California. But I think we better wait three weeks or so, till I get hold of some young fellow released from the medical corps130 to take my practice. And if people are gossiping, you don’t want to give them a chance by running away. Can you stand it and face ’em for three weeks or so?”
“Yes,” she said emptily.
IV
People covertly131 stared at her on the street. Aunt Bessie tried to catechize her about Erik’s disappearance132, and it was Kennicott who silenced the woman with a savage133, “Say, are you hinting that Carrie had anything to do with that fellow’s beating it? Then let me tell you, and you can go right out and tell the whole bloomin’ town, that Carrie and I took Val — took Erik riding, and he asked me about getting a better job in Minneapolis, and I advised him to go to it. . . . Getting much sugar in at the store now?”
Guy Pollock crossed the street to be pleasant apropos134 of California and new novels. Vida Sherwin dragged her to the Jolly Seventeen. There, with every one rigidly135 listening, Maud Dyer shot at Carol, “I hear Erik has left town.”
Carol was amiable136. “Yes, so I hear. In fact, he called me up — told me he had been offered a lovely job in the city. So sorry he’s gone. He would have been valuable if we’d tried to start the dramatic association again. Still, I wouldn’t be here for the association myself, because Will is all in from work, and I’m thinking of taking him to California. Juanita — you know the Coast so well — tell me: would you start in at Los Angeles or San Francisco, and what are the best hotels?”
The Jolly Seventeen looked disappointed, but the Jolly Seventeen liked to give advice, the Jolly Seventeen liked to mention the expensive hotels at which they had stayed. (A meal counted as a stay.) Before they could question her again Carol escorted in with drum and fife the topic of Raymie Wutherspoon. Vida had news from her husband. He had been gassed in the trenches137, had been in a hospital for two weeks, had been promoted to major, was learning French.
She left Hugh with Aunt Bessie.
But for Kennicott she would have taken him. She hoped that in some miraculous138 way yet unrevealed she might find it possible to remain in California. She did not want to see Gopher Prairie again.
The Smails were to occupy the Kennicott house, and quite the hardest thing to endure in the month of waiting was the series of conferences between Kennicott and Uncle Whittier in regard to heating the garage and having the furnace flues cleaned.
Did Carol, Kennicott inquired, wish to stop in Minneapolis to buy new clothes?
“No! I want to get as far away as I can as soon as I can. Let’s wait till Los Angeles.”
“Sure, sure! Just as you like. Cheer up! We’re going to have a large wide time, and everything ‘ll be different when we come back.”
VI
Dusk on a snowy December afternoon. The sleeper139 which would connect at Kansas City with the California train rolled out of St. Paul with a chick-a-chick, chick-a-chick, chick-a- chick as it crossed the other tracks. It bumped through the factory belt, gained speed. Carol could see nothing but gray fields, which had closed in on her all the way from Gopher Prairie. Ahead was darkness.
“For an hour, in Minneapolis, I must have been near Erik. He’s still there, somewhere. He’ll be gone when I come back. I’ll never know where he has gone.”
As Kennicott switched on the seat-light she turned drearily140 to the illustrations in a motion-picture magazine.
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butt
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cuff
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vacuous
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depressed
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discomfort
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compartment
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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9
devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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10
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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11
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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12
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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13
visualize
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| vt.使看得见，使具体化，想象，设想 | |
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14
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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15
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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16
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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17
tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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18
clumped
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| adj.[医]成群的v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的过去式和过去分词 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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19
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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20
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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21
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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22
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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23
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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24
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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25
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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26
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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27
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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28
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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29
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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30
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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31
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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32
gnomes
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| n.矮子( gnome的名词复数 )；侏儒；（尤指金融市场上搞投机的）银行家；守护神 | |
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33
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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34
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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36
impersonally
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| ad.非人称地 | |
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37
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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38
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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39
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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40
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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41
puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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42
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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44
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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45
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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46
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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48
abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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49
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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50
swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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52
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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53
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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54
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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55
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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56
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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57
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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58
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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59
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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60
flake
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| v.使成薄片；雪片般落下；n.薄片 | |
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61
gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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62
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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63
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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64
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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65
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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66
cylinders
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| n.圆筒( cylinder的名词复数 )；圆柱；汽缸；（尤指用作容器的）圆筒状物 | |
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67
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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68
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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69
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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70
stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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71
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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72
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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73
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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74
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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75
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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76
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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77
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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78
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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79
stunt
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| n.惊人表演，绝技，特技；vt.阻碍...发育，妨碍...生长 | |
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80
platonic
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| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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81
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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82
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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83
radiator
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| n.暖气片，散热器 | |
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84
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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85
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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86
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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87
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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88
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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89
blizzard
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| n.暴风雪 | |
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90
bum
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| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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91
bumpy
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| adj.颠簸不平的，崎岖的 | |
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92
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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93
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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94
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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95
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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96
plumbing
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| n.水管装置；水暖工的工作；管道工程v.用铅锤测量（plumb的现在分词）；探究 | |
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97
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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98
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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99
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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100
shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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101
grouch
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| n.牢骚，不满；v.抱怨 | |
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102
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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103
savvy
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| v.知道，了解；n.理解能力，机智，悟性；adj.有见识的，懂实际知识的，通情达理的 | |
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104
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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105
manure
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| n.粪，肥，肥粒；vt.施肥 | |
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106
brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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107
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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108
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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109
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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110
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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111
bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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112
sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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113
mittens
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| 不分指手套 | |
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114
glowered
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| v.怒视( glower的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
contortion
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| n.扭弯，扭歪，曲解 | |
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116
portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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117
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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118
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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119
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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120
consonants
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| n.辅音，子音( consonant的名词复数 )；辅音字母 | |
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121
bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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122
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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123
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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124
stolidity
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| n.迟钝，感觉麻木 | |
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125
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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127
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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fatten
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| v.使肥，变肥 | |
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129
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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130
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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131
covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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132
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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133
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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134
apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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135
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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136
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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137
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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140
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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