There he sat, with his head between his hands, cudgelling his brains. For it staggered credulity that every form of sickness, that the break-neck casualties inseparable from bush life, should one and all fade out in so preposterous1 a fashion. In the unhealthy season, too, compared with the winter months in which he had settled there. What were the people up to? What cabal2 had they formed against him? That some shady trick was being played him, he did not for a moment doubt. Suspiciously he eyed Mrs. Beetling3 when she came to her job of a morning. SHE knew what was going on, or he was much mistaken: she looked very queerly at him, and often gave him the impression of scuttling4 hurriedly away. But he had never been any hand at pumping people of her class: it took Mary to do that. And so he contented5 himself, did he chance upon the woman, with fixing her in silence; and otherwise treating her with the contempt she deserved. He had more important things to occupy him. These first days of blank, unbroken idleness were spent in fuming6 about the house like a caged animal: up the passage, out on the verandah, round this and back to the passage. Again and again he believed he heard the front gate click, and ran to seat himself in the surgery. But it was always a false alarm. And after a few seconds’ prickling suspense7, in which every nerve in his body wore ears, he would bound up from his seat, hardly master of himself for exasperation8. These infamous9 people! Why, oh why had he ever set foot among them? . . . ever trodden the dust of this accursed place! A man of his skill, his experience, wilfully10 to put himself at the mercy of a pack of bush-dwellers . . . Chinese coolies . . . wretched half-castes! — And, striding ever more gauntly and intolerantly, he drove his thoughts back and salved his bleeding pride with memories of the past. He saw himself in his heyday11, on Ballarat, famed alike for his diagnoses and sureness of hand; saw himself called in to perform the most delicate operations; robbed of his sleep by night, on the go the livelong day, until at last, incapable12 of meeting the claims made on him, there had been nothing left for him to do but to fly the place. And spurred by the exhilaration of these memories, he quickened his steps till the sweat poured off him.
But he was not to be done. He’d shew these numskulls whom they had to deal with . . . make them bite the dust. Ha! he had it: that case of empyema and subsequent operation for PARACENTESIS THORACIS, which he had before now contemplated13 writing up for the AUSTRALIAN MEDICAL JOURNAL. Now was the time: he would set to work straightway, dash the article off, post it before the sun went down that night. It would appear in the March issue of the journal; and these fools would then learn, to their eternal confusion, that they had among them one whose opinions were of weight in the selectest medical circles. With unsteady hands he turned out a drawer containing old notes and papers, and having found what he wanted, spread them on the table before him. But, with his pen inked and poised14 ready to begin, he hesitated. In searching, he had recalled another, rarer case: one of a hydatid cyst in the subcutaneous tissue of the thigh15. This would be more telling; and going on his knees before a wooden chest, in which he stored old memoranda16, he rummaged17 anew. Again, however, after a lengthy18 hunt, he found himself wavering. His notes were not as full as he had believed: there would be finicking details to verify, books to consult which he could no longer get at. So this scheme, too, had to be let drop. Ah! but now he had really hit it. What about that old bone of contention19 among the medical profession, homoeopathy? Once on a time he had meant to bring out a pamphlet on the subject, and, if he remembered rightly, had made voluminous notes for it. Could he find these, he would be spared all brain-fag. And again he made his knees sore and his head dizzy over a mass of dusty, yellowing papers. After which, re-seating himself with an air of triumph, he ruled a line in red ink on a sheet of foolscap, and wrote above it, in his fine, flowing hand: Why I do not practise Homoeopathy.
IF, AS IS SO OFTEN ASSERTED, THE SYSTEM OF HOMOEOPATHY AS PRACTISED BY HAHNEMANN AND HIS FOLLOWERS20 . . .
But having got thus far he came to a standstill, re-dipped a pen that was already loaded, bit the end of it, wrinkled his brows. What next? . . . what did he want to say? . . . how to end the sentence? And when he did manage to catch a glimpse of his thought, he could not find words in which to clothe it . . . the right words. They would not come at his beck; or phrases either. He floundered, tried one, then another; nothing suited him; and he grew more and more impatient: apparently21, even with his notes before him, it was going to be beyond him to make a decent job of the thing. He had been silent too long. Nor could he, he now found, work up the heat, the orthodox heat with which he had once burnt: the points he had formerly22 made against this quack23 and his system now seemed flat or exaggerated. So indifferent had he grown with the years that his present attitude of mind was almost one of: let those who choose adopt Hahnemann’s methods, those who will, be allopaths. And, as he sat there struggling to bring his thoughts to heel, to re-kindle the old fire, the tardy24 impulse to express himself died out. He threw his pen from him. CUI BONO? Fool, fool! to think of blistering25 his brains for the benefit of these savages26 among whom his present lot was cast. What would they understand of it, many of whom were forced to set crosses where their names should have stood? And when he was so tired, too, so dog-tired physically27, with his feverish28 runnings to and fro, and exhausted29 mentally with fretting30 and fuming. Much too tired (and too rusty) to embark31 on a piece of work that demanded utmost care and discrimination . . . let alone cope with the labour of writing it down. Suddenly, quite suddenly, the idea of exertion32, of any effort whatever, was become odious33 to him . . . odious and unthinkable. He put his arms on the table and hid his face in them; and, lying there, knew that his chief desire was fulfilled: to sit with his eyes screened, darkness round him, and to think and feel just as little as he saw. But, a bundle of papers incommoding him, he raised his hand, and with a last flash of the old heat crumpled35 notes and jottings to balls and tossed them to the floor. There they lay till, next morning, Mrs. Beetling swept them up and threw them on the kitchen fire.
And now silence fell anew — a silence the more marked for the stormy trampling36 that had preceded it. Said Mrs. Beetling to her crony, the ostler’s wife: “I do declare, ‘e’s that mousy quiet, you never c’d tell there was a livin’ creatur’ in the ’ouse — not no more’n a triantelope nor a centipede!” No longer had she to spend time dodging37 her master: shrinking behind open doors to avoid crossing his path, waiting her opportunity to reach bedroom or dining-room unobserved. He never left the surgery; and she could work with a good grace, scrubbing floors that were not trodden on, cooking food the lion’s share of which it fell to her to eat.
Meanwhile a burning February ran its course. To step off the verandah now was like stepping into a furnace. The sky was white with heat: across its vast pale expanse moved a small, copper-coloured sun. Or the hot winds streaked39 it with livid trails of wind-smitten cloud. The very air was white with dust. While, did a windstorm rise, the dust-clouds were so dense40 that everything — trees, Lagoon41, township, the very garden itself — was blotted42 out. Dust carpeted the boards of the verandah, drove into the passage, invaded the rooms. But never a drop of rain fell. And then the fires started: in all the country round, the bush was ablaze43: the sky hung dark as with an overhead fog; the rank tang of burning wood smarted the lungs.
In the little oven of a house the green blinds were lowered from early morning on. Behind them, in a bemusing twilight44, behind the high paling-fence that defended house from road, Mahony sat isolate45 — sat shunned46 and forgotten. And as day added itself to day the very sound of his own voice grew strange to him, there being no need for him ever to unclose his lips. Even his old trick of muttering died out — went the way of his pacing and haranguing47. For something in him had yielded, had broken, carrying with it, in its fall, the black pride, the bitter resentment48, the aggressive attitude of mind which had hitherto sustained him. And this wholesale49 collapse50 of what he had believed to be his ruling traits made him feel oddly humble51 . . . and humiliated52 . . . almost as if he had shrivelled in stature53. Hence he never went out. For the single road led through the street of malicious54 eyes: and now nothing would have prevailed on him to expose himself to their fire. More and more the four walls of his room began to seem to him haven55 and refuge. And gradually he grew as fearful of the sound of footsteps approaching the door as he had formerly been eager for them. For they might mean a summons to quit his lair56.
But no steps came.
Had he had but a dog to lay its moist and kindly57 muzzle58 on his knee, or a cat to arch its back under his hand, the keenest edge might have been taken off his loneliness. But for more years than he could count, he had been obliged to deny himself the company of those dumb friends who might now have sought, in semi-human fashion, to relieve the inhuman59 silence that had settled round him. Nothing broke this — or only what was worse than the silence itself: the awful mill-whistle, which, five times a day, marked the passage of the empty hours with its nerve-shattering shriek60. He learnt to hate this noise as if it had been a live and malignant61 thing; yet was constrained62 to wait for it, to listen to it — even to count the seconds that still divided him from its blast. His books lay unopened, withdrawn63 into their primary state of so much dead paper. And it was not books alone that lost their meaning and grew to seem useless, and a burden. He could forget to wind up his watch, to pare his nails; he ceased to care whether or no his socks were worn into holes. The one task to which he still whipped himself was the writing of the few lines necessary to keep Mary from fretting. (To prepare her, too. ABSOLUTELY NOTHING DOING . . . INCREDIBLE . . . HEARTBREAKING.) Otherwise he would sit, for an hour at a time, staring at some object on the table before him, till it, the table, the room itself, swam in a grey mist. Or he followed, with all the fixity of inattention, the movements of a fly . . . or the dance of dust motes64 laddering a beam.
But this inertia66, this seemingly aimless drifting, was yet not wholly irrational67. It formed a kind of attempt, a threefold attempt, on the part of his inmost self, to recover from . . . to nerve himself anew for . . . to avoid rousing a whit38 sooner than need be . . . the black terrors that stalked those hours when he had not even the light of day to distract him.
* * * * *
To wake in the night, and to know that, on this side of your waking, lies no ray of light or hope . . . only darkness and fear. To wake in the night: be wide awake in an instant with all your faculties68 on edge: to wake, and be under compulsion to set in, night for night, at the same point, knowing, from grim experience, that the demons69 awaiting you have each to be grappled with in turn, no single one of them left unthrown, before you can win through to the peace that is utter exhaustion70.
Sometimes he managed to get a couple of hours’ rest beforehand. At others, he would start up from a profound sleep believing the night far advanced; only to find that a bare ten or fifteen minutes had elapsed since he closed his eyes. But, however long or short the period of oblivion, what followed was always the same; and after a very few nights he learnt wisdom, and gave up struggling to escape the unescapable. Rising on his pillow he drew a long breath, clenched71 his fists, and thrust off.
The order in which his thoughts swept at him was always the same. The future . . . what of the future? With the practice gone, with nothing saved on which to start afresh, with but the slenderest of sums in hand for living expenses and the everlasting72 drain of the mortgage, he could see no way out of his present impasse73 but through the bankruptcy74 court. And in this country even an unmerited insolvency75, one brought about by genuine misfortunes, spelt disgrace, spelt ruin. And not for oneself alone. To what was he condemning76 Mary . . . and the children? . . . his tenderly reared children. Poverty . . . charity . . . the rough and ready scramble77 of colonial life. Oh, a man should indeed take thought and consider, before he gave such hostages to fortune! — And here, as he tossed restlessly from side to side, there came into his mind words he had read somewhere or heard some one say, about life and its ultimate meaning. Stripped of its claptrap, of the roses and false sentiment in which we loved to drape it, it had actually no object but this: to keep a roof over the heads and food in the mouths of the helpless beings who depend on us. — Burns, too . . . Bobbie Burns. — Oh, God! . . . there it was again. This accursed diminutive78! Night for night he vowed79 he would not use it, and night for night his tongue slipped and it was out before he could help himself. Had he then no longer the power to decide what he would or would not say? Preposterous! . . . preposterous and infuriating! For the whole thing — both the slip and his exasperation — was but a ruse80 on the part of his mind, to switch him off the main issue. And to know this, and yet be constrained, night after night, to the mechanical repetition of so utter a futility81 . . . his cold rage was such that several minutes had invariably to pass before he was calm enough to go on.
A way out! . . . there MUST be a way out. Hoisting82 himself on the pillow, till he all but sat erect83, and boring into the dark with eyes hot in their sockets84, he fell feverishly85 to telling over his affairs; though by now this, too, had become a sheerly automatic proceeding86: his lips singsonging figures and sets of figures, while his brain roved elsewhere. What he could NOT avoid was the recital87 of them: it formed another of the obstacles he was compelled nightly to clamber over, on the road to sleep. Bills and bad debts, shares and dividends88 and calls, payments on the mortgage, redemption of the capital: these things danced a witches’ sabbath in his head. To them must now be added the rent of the house they lived in. He had reckoned on covering this with the rental89 from the house at Hawthorn90. But they had had no luck with tenants91: were already at their second; and the house was said to be falling into bad repair. In the Bank in Barambogie there stood to his credit, stood between him and beggary, the sum of not quite one hundred pounds. When this was done, God help them!
WHY had he ever left Melbourne What evil spirit had entered into him and driven him forth92? What WAS that in him over which he had no power, which proved incapable of adhesion to any soil or fixed93 abode94? For he might arm himself, each time anew, with another motive95 for plucking up his roots: it remained mere96 ratiocination97, a sop98 flung to his reason, and in no wise got at the heart of the matter. Wherein lay the fault, the defect that had made of him throughout his life a hunted man? . . . harried99 from place to place, from country to country. Other men set up a goal, achieved it, and remained content. He had always been in flight. — But from what? Who were his pursuers? From what shadows did he run? — And in these endless nights, when he lay and searched his heart as never before, he thought he read the answer to the riddle100. Himself he was the hunter and the hunted: the merciless in pursuit and the panting prey101. Within him, it would seem, lodged102 fears . . . strange fears. And at a given moment one of these, hitherto dormant103 and unsuspected, would suddenly begin to brew104, and go on growing till he was all one senseless panic, blind flight the only catholicon. No matter what form it took — whether a morbid105 anxiety about his health, or alarm at the swiftness with which his little day was passing — its aim was always the same: to beat him up and on. And never yet had he succeeded in defying it. With the result that, well on in years and loaded with responsibilities, he stood face to face with ruin. Having dragged with him those who were dearer to him than his own life. — But stay! Was that true? . . . and not just one of those sleek106 phrases that dripped so smoothly107 off the tongue. WERE they dearer? In this moment of greater clarity he could no longer affirm it. He believed that the instinct of self-preservation had, in his case, always been the primary one. And digging deeper still, he got, he thought, a further insight into his motives108. If this were so, then what he fled must needs be the reverse of the security he ran to seek: in other words, annihilation. The plain truth was: the life-instinct had been too strong for him. Rather than face death and the death-fear, in an attempt to flee the unfleeable he had thrown every other consideration to the winds, and ridden tantivy into the unknown.
But now all chance of flight was over. He sat here as fast a prisoner as though chained to a stake — an old and weary man, with his fiftieth birthday behind him. — OLD, did he say? By God! not as a man’s years were reckoned elsewhere. In this accursed country alone. Only here were those who touched middle age regarded as decrepit109, and cumberers of the soil. Wisdom and experience availed a man nothing, where only brawn110 had value. As for the three-score years and ten — But no! . . . no use, no use! . . . words would not help him. Not thus could it be shirked. He had to fight through, to the last spasm111, the paroxysm of terror which at this point shook him like a palsy, at the knowledge that he would never again get free; that he was caught, trapped, pinned down . . . to be torn asunder112, devoured113 alive. His pulses raced, his breath came hard, the sweat that streamed off him ran cold. Night after night he had the same thing to undergo; and from bitter experience he knew that the fit would gradually exhaust itself, leaving him spent, inert65. — But this was all. With this, his compliance114 ceased, and there came a block. For, below the surface here, under a lid which he never lifted, which nothing would have induced him to raise by a hair’s-breadth, lurked115 a darker fear than any, one he could not face and live; even though, with a part of his mind, a watchful116 part, a part that it was impossible to deceive, he KNEW what it was.
Swerving117 violently, he laid the onus118 of his terror on a side issue: the confession119 that stood before him, the confession to Mary of his ruinous debt. As he pictured this, and as the borrowed emotion swelled120 it out, it turned to something horrible . . . monstrous121 . . . the performance of which surpassed his strength. How could he ever break the news to her, all unsuspecting, who shrank from debt as other women from fire or flood? What would she say? . . . hurl122 what bitter words at him, in her first wrath123 and distress124? She being what she was, he believed the knowledge would well-nigh break her heart . . . as it almost broke his, to think of the anguish125 he must inflict126 on her. — And once again the years fell away, and he was a little velvet-suited lad, paling and quivering under the lash34 of a caustic127 Irish tongue. But there also came times when some such vividly128 recalled emotion proved the way out. Then, one or other episode from the forty-year-old past would rise before him, with so amazing a reality that he re-lived it to its flimsiest details, hearing the ominous129 tick of the clock on the chimney-piece, smelling the scent130 of lavender that went out from his mother’s garments. At others, the past failing in its grip, there was nothing for it but to fight to a finish. And so he would lie, and writhe131, and moan, and beat the pillow with his hands, while tears that felt thick as blood scalded his cheeks.
But gradually, very gradually this last convulsion spent itself: and, as at the approach of soft music from a distance, he was aware of the coming end . . . of the peace advancing, at which all the labour of the night had been directed. Peace at last! . . . for his raw nerves, his lacerated brain. And along with it a delicious drowsiness132, which stole over him from his finger-tips, and up from his feet, relaxing knotted muscles, loosening his hands, which now lay limp and free. He sank into it, letting himself go . . . as into a pond full of feathers . . . which enveloped133 him, closed downily about him . . . he sinking deeper . . . ever deeper . . .
Until, angry and menacing, shattering the heavenly inertia, a scream. — Who screamed? A child? What was it? Who was hurt? — Oh God! the shock of it, the ice-cold shock! He fell back on the pillow, his heart thudding like a tom-tom. Would he NEVER grow used to it? . . . this awful waking! . . . and though he endured it day after day. For . . . as always . . . the sun was up, the hour six of a red-hot morning, and the mill-whistle flayed134 the silence. In all he had slept for not quite three-quarters of an hour.
Thereafter he lay and stared into the dusty light as he had stared into the darkness. Needle-like pulses beat behind his lids; the muscles round eyes and mouth were a-twitch with fatigue135. From the sight of food he turned with a sick man’s disrelish. Swallowing a cup of milkless tea, he crossed to the surgery and shut himself in. But on this particular day his habit of drowsing through the empty hours was rudely broken through. Towards midday he was disturbed by the door opening. It was Mrs. Beetling who, without so much as a knock, put her head in to say that the stationmaster had hurt his foot and wanted doctor to come and bandage it.
The stationmaster? — He had been far away, on high cliffs that sloped to the sea, gathering136 “horsetails” . . . and for still an instant his brain loitered over the Latin equivalent. Then he was on his feet, instinctively137 fingering the place where his collar should have been. But neither coat nor collar . . . and: “My boots, my good woman, my boots!” The dickens! Was that he who was shouting? Tut, tut! He must pull himself together, not let these spying eyes note his fluster138. But there was another reason for the deliberateness with which he sought the bedroom. His knees felt weak, and he could hardly see for the tears that would keep gathering. Over three weeks now close on a month — since any one had sent for him. ALL were not dead against him then! Oh, a good fellow, this Pendrell! . . . a good fellow! . . . a man after his own heart, and a gentleman. — And throwing open drawers and cupboards, he made many an unnecessary movement, and movements that went wide of their mark.
In putting arnica and lint139 in his bag he became aware that his hands were violently a-shake. This wouldn’t do. Impossible to appear before a patient in such a state. He clenched his fists and stiffened140 his arms; but the tremor141 was stronger than his will, and persisted. As a last resource he turned to the sideboard, poured some sherry into a tumbler, and gulped142 it down.
Quitting the house by the back door, he went past the kitchen, the woodstack, the rubbish-heap, a pile of emptied kerosene-tins, the pigsties143 (with never a pig in them), the fowls144 sitting moping in the shrinking shade. His eyes ran water anew at the brassy glare; and phew! . . . the heat. In his haste he had forgotten to put a handful of vine-leaves in the crown of his wideawake. The sun bore down on him with an almost physical weight: he might have had a loaded sack lying across neck and shoulders. And as soon as he let the hasp of the gate fall, he was in the dust of the road; and then his feet were weighted as well.
But his thoughts galloped145. Oh, that this summons might be the start of a new era for him! . . . the awful stagnation146 of the past month prove to have been but a temporary lull147, a black patch, such as any practice was liable to; the plot he had believed hatched against him prove to have existed only in his own imagination; and everything be as before . . . he still able to make a living, pay his way. —“Mercy! . . . dear God, a little mercy!”— But if that were so, then he, too, would need to do his share. Yes, he would make a point from now on of meeting the people here on their own level. He would ask after their doings . . . their wives and children . . . gossip with them of the weather and the vines . . . hobnob — no, drink with them he could and would not! But he knew another way of getting at them. And that was through their pockets. Fees! Quite likely he had set his too high. He would now come down a peg148 . . . halve149 his charges. They’d see then that it was to their advantage to call him in, rather than send elsewhere for a stranger. It might also be policy on his part — in the meantime at any rate — to treat trivial injuries and ailments150 free of charge. (Once the practice was set going again, he’d make them pay through the nose for all the worry and trouble they’d caused him.) If ONLY he could get the name of being freehanded . . . easygoing — could ingratiate himself . . . become popular.
So rapt was he that though, at the level crossing, his feet paused of themselves, he could not immediately think why he had stopped, and gazed absently round. Ha! the trains, of course. But there WERE no trains at this hour of day: the station was shut up, deserted151. A pretty fool he would look was he seen standing152 there talking to himself. He must hurry in, too, out of the sun. The heat was beginning to induce giddiness; the crown of his head felt curiously153 contracted. But he had still some distance to go. He spurred himself on, more quickly than before; his feet keeping time with his wingy thoughts.
Mary was hard put to it not to alarm the children. Every few minutes her anxiety got the better of her, and dropping her work she would post herself at a corner of the verandah, where she could see down the road. She had been on the watch ever since the postman handed in Richard’s letter that morning, for the telegram that was to follow. Her first impulse had been to start for home without delay; and, despite Tilly’s reasonings and persuasions154, she had begun to sort out the children’s clothes. Then she wavered. It would be madness to go back before the heat broke. And, if the practice was as dead as Richard averred155, there was no saying when the poor mites156 would get another change of air.
Still . . . Richard needed her. His letter ran: I AM AFRAID WHAT I HAVE TO TELL YOU WILL BE A GREAT SHOCK TO YOU. I WAS UP AT THE STATIONMASTER’S JUST NOW AND FOUND MYSELF UNABLE TO ARTICULATE. I COULD NOT SAY WHAT I WANTED. I LAY DOWN, AND THEY BROUGHT ME WATER. I SAID I THOUGHT IT WAS A FAINT— THAT I HAD BEEN OUT TOO LONG IN THE SUN. I FEAR IT IS SOMETHING WORSE. I AM VERY, VERY UNEASY ABOUT MYSELF. I HAVE BEEN SO DISTRESSED157 ABOUT THE PRACTICE. I THINK THAT MUST HAVE UPSET ME. INTENSE MENTAL DEPRESSION . . . AND THIS AWFUL HEAT— WHAT WITH SOLITUDE158 AND MISFORTUNES I HAVE BEEN TERRIBLY PUT ABOUT. ALL THE SAME I SHOULD NOT WORRY YOU, IF IT WERE NOT FOR MY DREAD159 OF BEING TAKEN ILL ALONE. I AM MOST UNWILLING160 TO BRING YOU AND THE CHILDREN BACK IN THE MEANTIME. THE HEAT BAFFLES DESCRIPTION. I SHOULD NEVER SPEND ANOTHER FEBRUARY HERE— IT WOULD BE AS MUCH AS MY LIFE IS WORTH. PERHAPS THE BEST THING TO DO WILL BE TO WAIT AND SEE HOW I AM. I WILL TELEGRAPH YOU ON MONDAY MORNING EARLY. TAKE NO STEPS TILL YOU HEAR.
But to this a postscript161 had been added, in a hand it was hard to recognise as Richard’s: OH MARY WIFE COME HOME, COME HOME! — BEFORE I GO QUITE MAD.
Down by the water’s edge Cuffy played angrily. He didn’t know what he loved best: the seaweed, or the shells, or the little cave, or the big pool on the reef, or the little pool, or bathing and lying on the sand, or the smell of the ti-trees. And now — oh, WHY had Papa got to go and get ill, and spoil everything? HE’D seen Mamma beginning to pack their things, and it had made him feel all hot inside. Why must just HIS clothes be packed? He might get ill, too. Perhaps he would, if he drank some sea. Aunt Tilly said it made you mad. (Like Shooh man.) All right then, he would get mad . . . and they could see how they liked it! And so saying he scooped162 up a palmful of water and put it to his mouth. It ran away so fast that there was hardly any left; but it was enough: ugh! wasn’t it nasty? He spat163 it out again, making a ‘normous noise so that everybody should hear. But they didn’t take a bit of notice. Then a better idea struck him. He’d give Mamma the very nicest things he had: the two great big shells he had found all by himself, which he kept hidden in a cave so that Luce shouldn’t even touch them unless he said so. He’d give them to Mamma, and she’d like them so much that she’d never want to go home — oh well! not for a long, long time. Off he raced, shuffling164 his bare feet through the hot, dry, shifty sand.
But it was no good: she didn’t care. Though he made her shut her eyes tight and promise not to look, while he opened her hand and squeezed the shells into it and shut it again, like you did with big surprises. She just said: “What’s this? Your pretty shells? My dear, what should I do with them? No, no! . . . you keep them for yourself,”— and all the while she wasn’t REALLY thinking what she said. And he couldn’t even tell her why, for now Aunt Tilly shouted that the telegram-boy was coming at last; and Mamma just pushed the shells back and ran out into the road, and tore open the telegram like anything, and smiled and waved it at Aunt Tilly, and they both laughed and talked and wiped their eyes. But then everything was all right again; for it was from Papa, and he had telegrammed: AM BETTER, DO NOT HURRY HOME.
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1
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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cabal
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| n.政治阴谋小集团 | |
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beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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scuttling
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| n.船底穿孔，打开通海阀（沉船用）v.使船沉没( scuttle的现在分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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10
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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11
heyday
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| n.全盛时期，青春期 | |
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12
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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13
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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14
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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15
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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16
memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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17
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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18
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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19
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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20
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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21
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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22
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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23
quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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24
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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25
blistering
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| adj.酷热的；猛烈的；使起疱的；可恶的v.起水疱；起气泡；使受暴晒n.[涂料] 起泡 | |
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26
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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27
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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28
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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29
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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30
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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31
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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32
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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33
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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34
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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35
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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36
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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37
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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38
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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39
streaked
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|
| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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40
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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41
lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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42
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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43
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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44
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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45
isolate
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| vt.使孤立，隔离 | |
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46
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
haranguing
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的现在分词 ) | |
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48
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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49
wholesale
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|
| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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50
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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51
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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52
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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53
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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54
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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55
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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56
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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57
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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58
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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59
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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60
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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61
malignant
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|
| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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62
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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63
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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64
motes
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| n.尘埃( mote的名词复数 )；斑点 | |
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65
inert
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|
| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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66
inertia
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|
| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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67
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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68
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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69
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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70
exhaustion
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|
| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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71
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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72
everlasting
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|
| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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73
impasse
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| n.僵局；死路 | |
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74
bankruptcy
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|
| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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75
insolvency
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|
| n.无力偿付，破产 | |
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76
condemning
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|
| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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77
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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78
diminutive
|
|
| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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79
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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80
ruse
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|
| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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81
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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82
hoisting
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| 起重，提升 | |
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83
erect
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|
| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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84
sockets
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|
| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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85
feverishly
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|
| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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86
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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87
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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88
dividends
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| 红利( dividend的名词复数 )； 股息； 被除数； （足球彩票的）彩金 | |
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89
rental
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| n.租赁，出租，出租业 | |
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90
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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91
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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92
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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93
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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94
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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95
motive
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|
| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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96
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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97
ratiocination
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| n.推理；推断 | |
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98
sop
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| n.湿透的东西，懦夫；v.浸，泡，浸湿 | |
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99
harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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100
riddle
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|
| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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101
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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102
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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103
dormant
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|
| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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104
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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105
morbid
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|
| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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106
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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107
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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108
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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109
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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110
brawn
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| n.体力 | |
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111
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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112
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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113
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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114
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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115
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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116
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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117
swerving
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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118
onus
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| n.负担；责任 | |
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119
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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120
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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121
monstrous
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|
| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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122
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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123
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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124
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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125
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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126
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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127
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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128
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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129
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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130
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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131
writhe
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|
| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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132
drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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133
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
flayed
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| v.痛打( flay的过去式和过去分词 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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135
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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136
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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137
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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138
fluster
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| adj.慌乱，狼狈，混乱，激动 | |
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139
lint
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| n.线头；绷带用麻布，皮棉 | |
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140
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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141
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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142
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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143
pigsties
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| n.猪圈，脏房间( pigsty的名词复数 ) | |
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144
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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145
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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146
stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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148
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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149
halve
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| vt.分成两半，平分；减少到一半 | |
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150
ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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151
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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152
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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153
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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154
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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155
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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156
mites
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| n.（尤指令人怜悯的）小孩( mite的名词复数 )；一点点；一文钱；螨 | |
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157
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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158
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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159
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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160
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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161
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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162
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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163
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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164
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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