"Then gently scan thy brother man,
Still gentler sister woman,
Though they may gang a keenin' wrang,
To step aside is human."
The charm of the doctor's conversation, drove away much of Roderick's homesickness and despondency, but it could not make him forget the pain in his arm, which was hourly growing more insistent10.
"And so you're leaving Algonquin for good," said Archie Blair at last, when the black porter sent them to the smoker11 while he made up their berths12. "Well, there's a great future ahead of you in that firm. Not many young fellows have such a chance as that. I wish Ed could have gone away before you left, though, to Jericho, or Sodom and Gomorrah, or wherever it is he and J. P. Thornton are heading for."
Archie Blair, as every one in Algonquin knew, lived as near to the rules of life set forth14 in the Bible as any man in the town. But he delighted in being known as a wicked and irreligious person, and always made a fine pretence15 at being at sea when speaking of anything Scriptural.
"Yes, sir, it's rather hard on old Ed; and there's J. P. too. He's been waiting for Ed ever since the Holy Land was discovered, as faithfully as Ruth waited for Jacob or whoever it was. I can't remember when those two chaps weren't planning to take that trip, and it looks as if they'd get to the New Jerusalem first. Cracky, now, I believe you were the one that stopped their first trip and here you're interrupting another one!" He laughed delightedly.
"I?" inquired Roderick. "How was that?"
"Oh, Ed wouldn't say so. He'd be sure it was the hand of Providence16. It was the time you went off hunting the rainbow and got lost, don't you remember? and your father got sick on the head of it. Ed stayed home that time."
"But it was Jock McPherson who came to poor father's rescue that time," said Roderick. "Lawyer Ed told me himself."
"Roderick McRae," he said, after a moment, "I have a fatal weakness. I suppose it's the poet in me. I like to think it is. I'm forever pouring out the thoughts of my inmost heart which I really ought to keep to myself. That was the way with Bobby ye mind:
'Is there a whim-inspired fool
Owre fast for thought, owe hot for rule.'
And here I've been telling tales I should keep tae ma'sel!"
"Well, you've got to finish, now that you've started," cried Roderick. "Do you mean to tell me that Lawyer Ed—"
"No, I don't mean to tell you anything, but I've done it, and I might as well make a full confession18. Of course it was Lawyer Ed did it. He always does things like that, he's got them scattered19 all over the country."
"But—why didn't I know?" cried Roderick sharply. "And what did he do?"
"Because he didn't want it. I'm the only person in Algonquin that knows, except J. P., of course. J. P. knows the innermost thoughts that pass through Ed's mind. There's another secret between us three." He smiled half-sadly. "I suppose, though, your father knows this one—that Ed was to have married J. P.'s only sister. She was tall and willowy and just like a flower, and she died a week before the wedding day. They buried her in her white satin wedding dress with her veil and orange blossoms." Archie Blair's voice had sunk to a tender whisper. "I saw her in her coffin20, with a white lily in her hand."
He was silent so long that Roderick brought him back to the starting point. "But you haven't told me yet how he helped Father."
So Archie Blair began at the beginning and told him all, happily unconscious of how he was harrowing Roderick's feelings in the telling. It was the old story of his father's mortgage, his own hunt for the rainbow, which, the doctor declared, argued that he should have been a poet, his father's illness, and Lawyer Ed's postponement21 of his trip, and greatest of all, his setting aside of the chance to leave Algonquin as partner with his old chum, William Graham, now millionaire.
"Your father sort of brought Ed up, you know, Rod, made him walk the straight and narrow way as he has done with many a man. I want to take my hat off every time I see that father of yours." He saw the distress22 in Roderick's face and was rather disconcerted. "Your father paid him every cent with interest, of course, Lad, you know that," he added hurriedly. "But there are some things can't be paid in money. Well, well—where did I start? Oh, at Jerusalem, and I've wandered from Dan to Beersheba and haven't got anywhere yet. Well, that was how Ed got started on the habit of staying home from the Holy Land, and he doesn't seem to be able to get out of it. You know it's a good thing. I'm always sorry Wordsworth ever went to Yarrow. It's a hundred times better to keep your dream-country a dream.
'Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
And if he ever goes, it'll never be what he thinks. His dreams of Galilee and the Rose of Sharon and Mount Carmel will vanish when he sees the poor reality. You see, in his Palestine, the Lord is always there." He dropped his voice—
"'And in those little lanes of Nazareth
Each morn His holy feet would come and go.'"
Roderick was not listening. He sat with downcast eyes and burning cheek. Lawyer Ed had done all this for his father, for him,—and this was his reward! The man had given up his chance in life for his father and then the son had come and done this abominable24 thing. Surely the gleam of the rainbow-gold was beginning to mock him already. And yet, as he sat there, overcome with humiliation25, his mind was busy arranging swift compromises, as it had always done. He would pay Lawyer Ed, oh, five fold, and send him away for a year's travel. And yet when all his generous schemes had been exhausted26, he knew they were not what Lawyer Ed wanted. It was the love and devotion of his friend's son he preferred above all worldly gain.
He came to a knowledge of his surroundings, called back by a sudden exclamation27 from the doctor.
"I believe you're sick, Rod! You look like an advanced and violent case of sea-sickness."
Roderick became conscious that his arm was paining him severely28 and said so. He could have said quite truthfully that the pain in his heart was quite as bad.
"That old arm," cried Archie Blair in distress. "I tell you, Lad, you've got to have that thing looked after. Here, get to bed and I'll have a look at it when you're undressed."
He came into Roderick's berth13 later and with rough kindness handled the swollen29, aching limb. "I always told you something would come of this," he grumbled30. "And like everybody, you won't listen till it's too late. There's some serious trouble there, Rod, or I'm very badly mistaken. Now, look here, you promise me on your word and honour you'll go straight to a doctor when you get to Montreal—to Doctor Nicholls. Here, I'll give you his address. Now, will you promise to go to-morrow morning, or must I stop off and miss my train to Halifax to see you do it?"
Roderick promised and lay down in his berth, but not to sleep. The pain in his arm was severe enough to keep him awake, but it was no worse than his heartache. It was a tender heart, not yet calloused31 by constant pursuit of selfish aims. That state would certainly be arrived at, on the road he was travelling, but he was still young and his very soul was longing32 to go back to his father and Lawyer Ed. Again and again he tried to comfort himself with the promise that he would make up to them for all they had done, oh, many times over, and in the end, they would both realise that the course he had pursued was for the best.
As he made this firm resolution, for the tenth time, the train drew up at a little station in the woods. Roderick looked out at the steam hissing33 from beneath his window and the dim light in the little station. He recognised it as the junction34, where a branch line ran from the main road, across the country, through forest and by lake shore, straight to Algonquin. The home train was approaching now. He could hear its rumbling35 wheels and its clanging bell far down the curving track, and the next moment, with a flare36 of light upon the snow, it came tearing up out of the forest and roared into the little station. Its brilliant windows flashed past his dazzled eyes. It stopped with a great exhaled37 breath of relief and stood panting and puffing38 after its long run. Roderick knew that if he chose he could slip out, leap on that train and go speeding away up through the forest and be in Algonquin before morning. He felt for a moment an almost irresistible39 impulse to do it, to fling away everything and go back. But he would look like a fool, and the people would laugh at him, and quite rightly. He could not go back now.
There was a gentle movement, and slowly and smoothly40 he began to glide41 past those home-going lights. In a moment more he was speeding eastward42 into the white night.
When he reached Montreal he went immediately to the hotel. He was to meet Mr. Graham and the head of the firm there that evening, when everything regarding his immediate43 duties was to be settled. He registered, and found a room awaiting him, a luxurious44 room, finer than any he could afford. It was the beginning of his new life. He went down to breakfast, but could eat nothing, for the pain in his arm. He was not at all averse45 to obeying Dr. Blair's injunction, and as soon as he went back to his room, he telephoned the doctor whose address he had been given. He felt a strange dizziness and, fearing to go out, he asked if the doctor would call. When Roderick gave the name of the firm he represented, there was an immediate rise in the temperature at the other end of the telephone. Evidently the young lady in charge of Doctor Nicholls's office knew her business. All uncertainty46 as to the physician's movements immediately vanished.
Doctor Nicholls would call in the course of half an hour if convenient to Mr. McRae, he was just about to visit the Bellevue House in any case.
Roderick felt again the advantages of his new position. The sensation of power was very pleasant, but it could not keep his arm from aching. The pain grew steadily47 worse, until at last he lay on the bed waiting impatiently.
In a short time there came a tap on the door. Thinking it was the doctor, Roderick sprang up relieved. But it was only the boy in buttons with a telegram. He signed the paper indifferently. Even the most urgent business of Elliot & Kent could not arouse his interest, he was feeling so sick and miserable48 and down-hearted. He opened the yellow paper slowly, and then sprang up with a cry that made the boy stop in the hall and listen. Roderick stood in the middle of the room reading the terse49 message again and again:
"Father ill. Come at once." E. L. Brians.
He leaped to the telephone, then dropped the receiver at the sight of a railway guide he had left upon the table. The first train he could take for home left at fifteen minutes past three in the afternoon. And it was not yet ten o'clock! He sat down on the bed, a dread50 fear possessing his soul. Wild surmises51 rushed through his mind. What could have happened? It was not twenty-four hours since he had seen his father standing52 in the doorway53 waving him farewell, the sunlight on his face and that gallant54, anguished55 attempt at a smile! Roderick groaned56 aloud as he remembered. He took up the telegram again, striving to extract from its cruelly brief words some inkling of what had preceded it, some hope for the future.
A second tap at the door sent him to open it with a bound. Before him stood a professional looking man, well-dressed and well-groomed, with a small leather bag.
"Are you my patient?" he asked briskly.
"Patient?" Roderick stared at him stupidly.
"Yes; Mr. McRae, I believe? I am Doctor Nicholls."
"Oh," said Roderick. "I had forgotten all about it. Yes, come in." He stepped back and the physician eyed him curiously57. He looked desperately58 ill, sure enough.
Roderick answered briefly59 and absently all the doctor's questions. Beside this awful thing which threatened him, his arm seemed so trivial, that he was impatient at the attention he was compelled to give it. Evidently the physician was of another opinion as to its importance. His face was imperturbable60, but after a careful examination he said very gravely:
"You'll have to have this attended to immediately, Mr. McRae. Immediately. It's a case, if my judgment61 is correct, that has been delayed much too long already. Could you come to the hospital—this morning?"'
"I have to leave here on the three-fifteen this afternoon," said Roderick. "I have just received a telegram that my father is very ill—I can't have anything done to-day."
"Ah, quite sad indeed. Not serious I hope?"
"I don't know," said Roderick dully.
"I must urge you especially to come to-day. We have Dr. Berger here, from New York. He is going to the congress at Halifax. You have heard of him, of course. He is coming to see some patients of mine this morning, and I should like him to see you too. Indeed, I feel I must urge you, Mr. McRae. You are trifling62 with your health, perhaps your life," he went on, puzzled by Roderick's indifference63. "It is imperative64 that something be done at once. How about coming with me now? It leaves plenty of time for your train."
Roderick considered a moment. He could not meet Mr. Graham now in any case. He must leave a message for him that he had been called back to Algonquin and telegraph home for more specific news. That was all he could do until train time, so he decided65 he might as well obey the doctor.
When he had despatched a telegram and written a message for Mr. Graham he followed the doctor to his car. The professional man seemed eagerly delighted, as though Roderick were merely a wonderful new specimen67 he had found and upon which he intended to experiment. He chattered68 away happily on the way to the hospital.
"Yes, Berger will be very much interested. Yours is really a rare case, from a medical standpoint, Mr. McRae. Quite unique. You said you believed it was injured when you were only six years old?"
He seemed almost pleased, but Roderick did not care. The pain in his arm and that fiercer pain raging in his heart made him indifferent. "My father! My father!" he was repeating to himself in anguished inquiry69. What had happened to his father? Perhaps he was dying, while his son lingered far away from him. And what an age he had to wait for that train, and what another age to wait till it crawled back to Algonquin! He remembered with wonder the strange wild impulse he had had the night before to leap across into the home-bound train and go back. He speculated upon what might have happened, until his brain reeled. And when would he get another telegram? And why had not Lawyer Ed told him more? He asked himself these futile70 questions over and over in wild impatience71. The fever of the night before had returned, his head was hot, and ached as if it would burst.
He obeyed the doctor's orders mechanically. His mind was focussed on the time for the train to leave and in the interval72 he did not care what they did with him. So he let himself be put into a bare little white room, heavy with the smell of disinfectants, while a nurse in a blue uniform and a young house surgeon in white and a silent footed orderly moved about him.
The nurse's blue dress reminded him of another blue gown, one for which he used to watch at the office window on summer mornings. He followed it with his eyes, as the great surgeon took him in hand and examined and questioned him. He answered mechanically, his parched73 lips uttering things with which his fevered brain seemed to have no interest.
He listened in a detached way, as though the doctor were speaking of some one else as, with many technical terms, he diagnosed the case. Doctor Nicholls was there, and two young house surgeons, all eagerly listening, but the patient's mind was away in the old farm house on the shore of Lake Algonquin desperately seeking relief from its suspense74.
He scarcely noticed when they left the room, but he came to himself completely when they returned, and Dr. Nicholls announced to him briskly and almost joyfully75 that Dr. Berger's ultimatum76 was an immediate operation.
"No, you won't," said the patient with sudden vigour77. "I have to leave this afternoon for home on the three-fifteen."
The great man looked down at him. "Young man," he said quietly, and there was a still strength in his manner that carried conviction, "you will do as you please of course, but if you don't take my advice and have that limb attended to immediately, you'll go to your long home, and not much later than 3.15 either. Yours is a most critical case. If you refuse you are committing suicide. Now, Doctor Nicholls, I have just half-an-hour to see your other patients."
He walked out of the room. And Roderick sat up in the bed and stared after them stupefied. A young house-surgeon, who had been regarding the patient with eyes holding more than professional interest, came to his side. He tried to speak cheerfully.
"It's a most unusual thing to operate in such a hurry, but it's better for a patient, I think. It's all over quickly you know, and no long weary waiting."
"But my father!" cried Roderick. "My father is critically ill. I've got to go home! I've got to, I tell you! I can have this done—later—at home."
The fever flush deepened to a hot crimson78. He got to his feet, then staggered back, dizzy with pain. The young physician laid him on the bed. "Look here, now, you mustn't get worked up like that, Roderick," he said.
Roderick looked up at him. The young man had come into the room with Dr. Berger, but not till this moment had he noticed him. He stared, and a light, brighter even than the fever had brought, leaped into his eyes.
"Wells!" he cried. "Is it Dick Wells?"
"Dick Wells, it is," said the other, smiling, pleased that he had created such a complete diversion. He took the patient's left hand and shook it with a cordiality that was not returned.
"I haven't seen you since old 'Varsity days, Rod. And 'pon my word I didn't know you for a minute. We'll see you through this all right; don't worry."
Roderick was staring at him in a disconcerting way.
"Where have you been since you graduated?" he asked.
That harsh unsmiling manner was not at all like the Roderick McRae he had known in college, but the young man laid the change to his fevered condition.
"Here, in Montreal. Next year I hope to go to Europe." He made a sign to the nurse who entered, and quietly began preparing the arm for its operation. Roderick did not pay any attention to even her blue uniform this time, his eyes were fixed79 with a fierce intentness upon the young doctor's face. Wells had always been known as a very handsome fellow, but his appearance had not improved; he had grown stouter80 and coarser. He was still good-looking, however, and his manner had the old easy kindness Roderick remembered. He was just going to ask him another abrupt81 question, when the young doctor slipped his finger over the patient's pulse, and began talking quietly and soothingly82.
"And you went back to your old home town, didn't you? Let me see—" his casual air did not deceive his alert listener—"Algonquin's your home, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"You've been practising law there, haven't you?" He took out his watch and looked at it.
"Yes,—in Algonquin."
A smile passed over the young physician's face, as of pleasant reminiscence. "Algonquin," he repeated—"pretty name. You don't happen to know—er—a Miss Murray there, do you? A teacher."
"Yes," said Roderick, "I've met her," and held his breath for the next words.
"I've met her too—several times." He laughed, glancing at Roderick in a shamefaced manner. "I think when you go home, if you'll take me, I'll go along as travelling physician. I'd like most awfully83 well to see that town of yours."
Roderick involuntarily jerked his wrist from the other's grasp. Had he not done so, the doctor would have been amazed at the leap of the already bounding pulse.
"I thought—rumour had it at college—that your affections were in process of transition when you graduated." Roderick looked straight at him. It was impossible to keep from his voice something of the bitterness rising in his heart. He was risking his own secret. But he felt he must know.
Dick Wells' eyes dropped to his watch again. He was silent for a moment. The nurse left the room and he immediately spoke84 in a low tone.
"It a fellow plays the fool once in life," he said, "that's no reason why he should take it up as a steady profession. I've dropped it for good and all. And if you behave yourself and have this operation right away I'll come and take Christmas dinner—no, that's holiday time—I'll come and prescribe for you shortly after New Year's!" He laughed joyfully. "I hope you'll welcome me," he said, half-shyly. "For I've reason to believe I'm going to be welcomed in other quarters."
"Dr. Wells, you are wanted in the corridor," said the nurse, returning.
He left the room, and Roderick lay back and stared at the ceiling. He caught the word amputation85, and he knew they were talking about his arm. They were going to cut it off, then. The knowledge did not seem to add anything to the overwhelming weight which had fallen upon him, and was crushing him. The whole structure of his life was tumbling about him, and he lay caught helpless in its fall. His new position was gone, for well he knew the company could not wait—indeed, would not wait—for so insignificant86 a servant as he. His father—perhaps his father was gone. And now the rosy87 hope that had steadily and surely arisen in his heart, since the day he had seen Helen Murray on board the Inverness, until it had lighted up his whole life, had suddenly vanished in darkness. His fighting spirit rose against these odds88. He shoved the deft89 hands of the nurse aside and sat up.
"I'm going home," he said hoarsely90. Then the nurse, and the little white table by the bedside with the bottles on it, and the white uniformed man standing outside the doorway, swung up to the ceiling and became an indistinct blur91. He recovered almost immediately. The nurse slipped a little thermometer under his tongue, and put a cool finger on his pulse.
"Dr. Wells is wanted in the operating room," she said soothingly. "You will be glad to know he is going to assist. I understand you are old friends." She looked at him anxiously. He was in the worst possible condition mentally for an operation.
"If you'd just brace93 up, you know," she said encouragingly. "If you would get hold of yourself." She had prepared many a patient for the operating table, and had seen few so exercised as this one. "You must be courageous," she said. "The operation may not be serious. And it will be over soon."
Roderick looked at her uncomprehendingly. He cared not at all for the operation itself, but it was the trap that had caught him, and he was writhing94 to be free.
Her next words put a new face on it.
"If you have any message to send to your friends," she said gently, "I should be glad to have it attended to. Have you any—property or anything that should be settled. We hope this operation will be simple; but if not—you should be prepared, Mr. McRae."
"There's nothing," said Roderick. "Nothing."
Everything in the world was slipping from him. The props95 of life had given way one by one, and now perhaps life itself was going. He lay there on the small cot-bed, watching the nurse and orderly hurry to and fro, and looked squarely at the situation. It was desperate. Always he had taken hold of difficulties and wrenched96 them out of his path and gone proudly on his way. But here he was helpless. For the first time in his strong, successful youth he realised that which his father had striven all his years to teach him, man's utter impotence before God. He was bound hand and foot, helpless, just as the door of success had flung open at his touch. He had paddled out bravely into the open sea of life after the rainbow gold, only to find it vanish and leave him lost in a world of mists and shadows. He remembered Dr. Leslie's words: "If His love cannot draw us into the way, it meets us on the Damascus road and blinds us with its light."
He lay there for what seemed an interminable time. He was clinging to one faint hope. Lawyer Ed would surely answer his telegram. But the nurse returned with the word that there had been no message, and that the doctors were preparing. He was to go down to the operating room in ten minutes.
It seemed as if with that word the last feeble support gave way, and then Roderick McRae's soul went down to the black brink97 of despair. He was utterly98 alone, without help or friend. Everything, his success, his health, his father, his love, had been snatched from him in one moment.
There was even no God for him. He had been so long dependent entirely99 upon himself, that God had become a meaningless word. And now, if God were real, His cruel Hand was behind that fearful black mist that was closing about him shutting him off from hope. He lay like a log, staring at the white ceiling of the little hospital room. The nurse and the orderly were bidding him brace up and were shaking their heads over him. He paid no more attention to them than to the strong odour of drugs or the soft click-click of heels on the hardwood floor of the corridor. Some subtle trick of memory had taken him back to the one other time of despair in his experience. He was back again in that night, years ago, when he was lost on the lake, drifting away in the darkness to unknown terrors; and just as he had cried out that night, his whole soul rose in one desperate demand upon his Father for help.
"Oh, God!" he groaned, starting up, "oh, God, help me!"
And then it happened; the great wonder. The light from his Father's boat! The sound of his Father's voice! Just as, long ago, lost in mists and darkness, a prey100 to every terror, his father's voice, calling down the shaft101 of light, had caught him up from despair to the heights of joy, so it was now. Suddenly, without reason, there fell upon the young man's writhing soul a great calm. He lay back on his pillow, perfectly102 still, his whole being held in awe103 of what had happened. For there, in the common light of day, within the bare walls of the hospital room, not visible to the human eye, but plain to the eye of the soul, staring beyond the things that are seen for a gleam of hope, a Presence was quietly standing. Serene104, omnipotent105, all-calming, the gracious One stood, close to his side, and fear and pain fled before Him.
Roderick was conscious of no feeling of surprise or wonder. He felt only a great serenity106, and an absolute safety. He asked no questions, felt no desire to ask any. There had been another young man once, who had met this same One in a like headlong career, planned by his own strong right hand, and he had cried out in fear, "Who art thou, Lord?" But Roderick knew just as well as he had known his father's voice that night coming out of the mists and darkness. His Eternal Father was at his side. That was all he knew now. It was all he cared to know. He lay there in perfect peace and, close to his side, silent and strong, stood the Presence.
The orderly pushed up the little wheeled conveyance107 to the bedside, the nurse took his wrist in her hand again. She beamed happily. "Good for you," she said, as she placed her hand upon his forehead. "Why, you're splendid. You've got your nerve all right," and she stared in amazement108 when Roderick smiled at her. He did not answer, though, he was listening to something. All the old promises he had learned at his father's knee and that had meant nothing to him for so long, were flooding over his peaceful soul, coming serenely109 and softly from the Presence standing by his pillow.
"When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee and through the rivers they shall not overflow110 thee; when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle111 upon thee... Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day, nor for the pestilence112 that walketh in darkness."
"Now, sir," said the orderly, "we'll just move you onto this truck." But Roderick rose up strongly. "Why can't I walk down?" he asked. The nurse stared and again felt the patient's pulse for some explanation of this transformation113. The quiet steady beat in the wrist was the strangest part of it all.
"Well," she cried admiringly, "I never saw anything like you. You're perfectly able to walk; but you'd better save your strength. Just lie down on this. You'll be all over your operation in no time!" Roderick obeyed, and the orderly wheeled him away to the elevator; and along the bare hospital corridor moved with him that strong Presence. And he went with a perfect faith and as little fear as if he had been going along the Pine Road to his home. What did it matter as to the result, or what did it matter that his father back in Algonquin did not know? He and his father were safe, upheld by the everlasting114 arms. It was well, no matter what the outcome. When he reached the operating room the Presence was there, just as real as the muffled115 doctors standing ready to do their work, and when he was stretched upon the table taking the anaesthetic, he felt as peaceful as on that night when he sank asleep in his father's arms and was borne safely homeward.
It seemed that the next moment he awoke in the room he had so recently left. Dr. Nicholls was at his side. "A normal pulse," he said, smiling into Rod's enquiring116 face. "You're a wonder. What do you think of that, nurse?"
"I expected that," she said, smiling.
"You've behaved so well," continued the doctor, "that I believe you're able to receive two pieces of good news."
"My father," whispered Roderick. The doctor nodded happily. "A telegram came half-an-hour ago. It reads, 'Out of danger, no need to come, will write. E. Brians.'" Roderick felt the tears slipping over his cheek. The nurse wiped them away. He was remembering it all now. The Presence had been with his father too.
"You haven't asked about my other news," said the doctor.
Roderick looked at him enquiringly. He was thinking of Helen, and had forgotten all about the operation.
"Berger saved your arm. And it will be as fit as ever in a few months. It was the most delicate kind of operation, and one of the finest he ever did. I shall tell you more about it later, you must be quiet now. But I must give you Dr. Berger's message. He had to leave for Halifax, but he said he wished he could congratulate you on your nerve. I don't know what you did to get hold of yourself in such a hurry, but you saved your own life. Now, I've told you enough. You must neither speak nor be spoken to until I see you again."
He smiled again, radiant with the true scientist's joy over such a triumph of skill as Roderick's arm presented, and left the room.
And Roderick, who knew so much more about it all than mere66 science could ever teach, closed his eyes and lay still, his whole soul raising to its new-found God one inarticulate note of thanksgiving.
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| n.节流阀，节气阀，喉咙；v.扼喉咙，使窒息，压 | |
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10
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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smoker
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| n.吸烟者，吸烟车厢，吸烟室 | |
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berths
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| n.（船、列车等的）卧铺( berth的名词复数 )；（船舶的）停泊位或锚位；差事；船台vt.v.停泊( berth的第三人称单数 )；占铺位 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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16
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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19
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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20
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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21
postponement
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| n.推迟 | |
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22
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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24
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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25
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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27
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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29
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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30
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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31
calloused
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| adj.粗糙的，粗硬的，起老茧的v.（使）硬结，（使）起茧( callous的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）冷酷无情 | |
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32
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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33
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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34
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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35
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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36
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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37
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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38
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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39
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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41
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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42
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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43
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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44
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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45
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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46
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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47
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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48
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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49
terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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50
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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51
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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53
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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56
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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57
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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58
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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59
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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60
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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61
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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62
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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63
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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64
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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65
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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66
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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67
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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68
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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69
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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70
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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71
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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72
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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73
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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74
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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75
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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76
ultimatum
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| n.最后通牒 | |
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77
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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78
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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79
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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80
stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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81
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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82
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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83
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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84
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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85
amputation
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| n.截肢 | |
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86
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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87
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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88
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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89
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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90
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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91
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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92
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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94
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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95
props
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| 小道具； 支柱( prop的名词复数 )； 支持者； 道具； （橄榄球中的）支柱前锋 | |
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96
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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97
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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98
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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99
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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100
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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101
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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102
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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103
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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104
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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105
omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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106
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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107
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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108
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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109
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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110
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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111
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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112
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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113
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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114
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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115
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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116
enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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