Father Fontanel was out in the parish somewhere. One of the washer-women told her this, at the door of the church. There were many sick in the city from the great heat and the burned air—many little children sick. Father Fontanel always sought the sick in body; those who were sick in soul, sought him.... So the woman of the river-banks, in her simple way, augmented2 the story of the priest's love for his people. Paula rested for a few moments in the dim transept. Natives moved in and out for a breath of coolness, some pausing to kneel upon the worn tiles of the nave3. Later she walked among the lower streets of the suffering city, her heart filled with pity for the throngs4 housed on the low breathless water-front. Except when the wind was straight from the volcano, the hotel on the Morne d'Orange was made livable by the cool Trades.
The clock in the Hopital l'Militaire struck the hour of nine. Paula had just hired a carriage at the Sugar Landing, when her eye was attracted by a small crowd gathering5 near the water's edge. The black cassock of a priest in the midst drew her hurrying forward. A young man, she thought at first, from the frail6 shoulders and the slender waist.... A negress had fallen from the heat. Her burdens lay together upon the shore—a tray of cakes from her head, and a naked babe from her arms.... A glimpse at the priest's profile, and she needed not to be told that this was the holy man of Saint Pierre.
Happiness lived in the face above the deep pity of the moment. It was an attraction of light, like the brow of Mary in Murillo's Immaculate Conception; or like that instant ethereal radiance which shines from the face of a little child passing away without pain. The years had put an exquisite7 nobility upon the plain countenance8, and the inner life had added the gleam of adoration—"the rapture9-light of holy vigils kept."
Paula rubbed her eyes, afraid lest it were not true; afraid for a moment that it was her own meditations11 that had wrought12 this miracle in clay. Lingering, she ceased to doubt the soul's transfiguration.... Father Fontanel beckoned13 a huge negro from a lighter14 laden15 with molasses-casks—a man of strength, bare to the waist.
"Take the little mother to my house," he said.
A young woman standing17 by was given charge of the child.... "Lift her gently, Strong Man. The woman will show you the way to the door." Then raising his voice to the crowd, the priest added, "You who are well—tell others that it is yet cool in the church. Carry the ailing18 ones there, and the little children. Father Pelée will soon be silent again.... Does any one happen to know who owns the beautiful ship in the harbor?"
His French sentences seemed lifted above a pervasive19 hush20 upon the shore. The native faces wore a curious look of adulation; and Paula marvelled22 in that they seemed unconscious of this. She was not a Catholic; yet she uttered his name with a thrilling rapture, and with a meaning she had never known before:
"Father Fontanel——"
He turned, instantly divining her inspiration.
"Mr. Stock, who owns the ship yonder, is staying at the Hotel des Palms," she said quickly. "I have a carriage here. I was thinking that the sick woman and her child might be taken to your house in that. Afterward23, when she is cared for, you might wish to ride with me to the Hotel—where I also live."
"Why, yes, Child—who are you?"
"Just a visitor in Saint Pierre—a woman from the States."
Her arrangement was followed, and the negro went back to his work. Father Fontanel joined her behind the carriage.
"But you speak French so well," he observed.
"Not a few Americans do. I was grateful that it came back to me here."
They walked for a moment in silence, his head bowed in thought. Paula, glancing at him from time to time, studied the lines of pity and tenderness which shadowed the eyes. His mouth was wonderful to her, quite as virgin25 to the iron of self-repression as to the soft fullness of physical desire. This was the marvel21 of the face—it was above battle. Here were eyes that had seen the Glory and retained an unearthly happiness—a face that moved among the lowly, loved, pitied, abode26 with them; yet was beautiful with the spiritual poise27 of Overman.
"It was strange that you did not meet Lafcadio Hearn when he was here," she said at length.
He shook his head, asked the name again and the man's work.
"A writer who tarried here; a mystic, too, strange and strong."
"I know no writer by that name—but how did you know that I did not meet him, Child?"
"I was thinking he would write about you in his book of Martinique sketches—had he known."
He accepted the explanation innocently. "There was a writer here—a young man very dear to me—of whom you reminded me at once——"
"Of whom I reminded you, Father?" she repeated excitedly. "You mean because I spoke28 of another writer?"
"No, I saw a resemblance—rather some relationship of yours to my wonderful young friend.... He said he would come again to me."
She had spoken of Hearn in the hope that Father Fontanel would be reminded of another writer whose name she did not care to mention. His idea of relationship startled her to the heart; yet when she asked further, the good man could not explain. It had merely been his first thought, he said,—as if she had come from his friend.
"You thought much of him then, Father Fontanel?"
He spoke with power now. "A character of terrible thirsts, Child,—such thirsts as I have never known. Some moments as he walked beside me, I have felt him—like a giant with wolves pulling at his thighs29, and angels lifting his arms. Great strength of mind, his presence endowed me, so that I would have seen more of him, and more,—but he will come back! And I know that the wolves shall have been slain30, when he comes again——"
"And the angels, Father?" she whispered.
"Such are the companions of the Lifted, my daughter.... It is when I meet one of great conflicts that I am suffused31 with the spirit of worship in that I am spared. God makes my way so easy that I must wonder if I am not one of His very weak. It must be so, for my mornings and evenings are made lovely by the Presence. My people hearken unto my prayers for them; they love me and bring their little children for my blessing—until I am so happy that I cry aloud for some great work to do that I may strive heroically to show my gratitude32 to God—and lo, the doors of my work are opened, but there are no lions in the way!"
She knew now all that Charter had meant. In her breast was a silent mystic stirring—akin to that endearing miracle enacted33 in a conservatory34 of flowers, when the morning sun first floods down upon the glass.... The initial doubt of her own valor35 in suffering Selma Cross to shatter her Tower, sprang into being now. Father Fontanel loved him, and had looked within.
That the priest had perceived a "relationship" swept into the woman's soul. Low logic36 wrought from the physical contacts of Selma Cross trembled before the other immaterial suggestion—that Quentin Charter would come back to Saint Pierre triumphantly37 companioned, his wolves slain.... She forgot nothing of the actress's point of view; nor that the Westerner did not reach her floor in the Zoroaster and encounter an old attraction by accident. He was not one to force his way there, if the man at the elevator told him Miss Linster was not in. All of these things which had driven her to action were still inexplicable38, but final condemnation39 was gone from the evidence—as the stone rolled away.
Bellingham?... The mystery now, as she stood within this radiant aura, was that any point of his desire could ever have found lodgment within. Her sense of protection at this moment was absolute. She had done well to come here.... Again swept into mind, Quentin Charter's silent part in saving her from the Destroyer—the book, the letter, the voice; even to this sanctuary40 she had come through a sentence from him. For a moment the old master-romance shone glorious again—like a lone41, valiant42 star glimpsed in the rift43 of storm-hurled clouds.
They had reached the low street door of Father Fontanel's house, a wing of the church. A native doctor had been summoned and helped to carry the woman in. She was revived presently.
"Father," Paula said, remembering the words of the washer-woman, as they emerged into the street, "when one is sick of soul—does one knock here?"
"One does not knock, but enters straightway," he answered. "The door is never locked.... But you look very happy, my daughter."
"I am happy," she answered.
They drove together to the Hotel des Palms. Paula did not ask, though she had something of an idea regarding the priest's purpose in asking for Peter Stock. Though she had formed a very high opinion of the American, it occurred to her that he would hardly approve of any one directing arteries44 of philanthropy to his hand. He had been one of those ruffian giants of the elder school of finance who began with the axe45 and the plow46; whose health, character and ethics47 had been wrought upon the anvil48 of privation; whose culture began in middle life, and, being hard-earned, was eminent49 in the foreground of mind—austere and inelastic, this culture, yet solidly founded. Stock was rich and loved to give, but was rather ashamed of it. Paula could imagine him saying, "I hate the whining50 of the strong." For twenty years since his retirement51, he had voyaged about the world, learning to love beautiful things, and giving possibly many small fortunes away; yet he much would have preferred to acknowledge that he had knocked down a brute52 than endowed an asylum53. Mr. Stock was firm in opinion, dutiful in appreciation54 for the fine. His sayings were strongly savored55, reliant with facts; his every thought was the result of a direct physical process of mind,—a mind athletic56 to grip the tangible57, but which had not yet contracted for its spiritual endowment. In a word a splendid type of American with which to blend an ardently58 artistic59 temperament60.... Paula, holding something of this conception of the capitalist, became eager to see what adjustment could follow a meeting with his complement61 in characteristic qualities—her revered62 mystic. Mr. Stock was pacing up and down the mango grove63. Leaving Father Fontanel on the veranda64, she joined the American.
"I found a holy man down on the water-front, mildly inquiring who owned the Saragossa," she said laughingly, "and asked him to share my carriage. He has not told me what he wants, but he's a very wonderful priest."
She noted65 the instant contraction66 of his brows, and shrank inwardly at the hard, rapid tone, with which he darted67 the question:
"Are you a Catholic?"
"No, Mr. Stock."
"Yes. I'll see him." It was as if he were talking to his secretary, but Paula liked him too well to mind. They drew near the veranda.
"... Well, sir, what is it?" he spoke brusquely, and in French, studying the priest's upturned face. Mr. Stock believed he knew faces. Except for the years and the calling, he would have decided68 that Father Fontanel was rather too meek69 and feminine—at first glance.
"What I wished to ask depends upon your being here for a day or two," the priest said readily. "Father Pelée's hot breath is killing70 our children in the lower quarters of the city, and many of the poor women are suffering. The ship out in the harbor looked to me like a good angel with folded wings, as I walked the water-front this morning. I thought you would be glad to let me send some mothers and babies—to breathe the good air of the offing. A day, or a night and a day, may save lives."
Paula had felt a proprietary71 interest in Father Fontanel's mission, no matter what it proved to be. She was pleased beyond measure to find that he was entirely72 incapable73 of awe74 or cringing75, before a man of stern and distinguished76 mien77 and of such commanding dignity. Moreover, he stated the favor quite as if it were an advantage which the American had not thought of for himself. So interested was she in the priest's utterance78, that when her eyes turned from his face to Stock's—the alteration79 there amazed her. And like the natives of the water-front, the American did not seem to be aware of the benign80 influence. He had followed the French sentences intently at first, but caught the whole idea before the priest was finished.
"Did you know I wasn't a Catholic?" he asked. The question apparently81 had been in his mind before he felt himself responding to the appeal.
"No," Father Fontanel answered sincerely. "The truth is, it didn't occur to me whether you were or not."
"Quite right," Mr. Stock said quickly. "It has no place, whatever, so long as you don't think so. You've got a good idea. I'll be here for a day or two. You'll need money to hire boats; then my first officer will have to be informed. My launch is at the Sugar Landing.... On second thought, I'll go back down-town with you.... Miss Wyndam—later in the day—a chat with you?"
"Of course."
Father Fontanel turned, thanking her with a smile. "And the name is 'Wyndam,'" he added. "I had not heard it before."
Paula watched them walking down the driveway to the carriage which she had retained for Father Fontanel. The inclination82 was full-formed to seek the solitude83 of her room and there review the whole delightful84 matter.... She was glad that the priest had not asked her name, for under his eyes—she could not have answered "Wyndam."
It was not until the following evening, after a day of actual physical suffering from Pelée and the heat, even on the Morne, that she had the promised talk with Peter Stock.
"I like your priest," he said, "He works like a man, and he hasn't got a crook85 in his back. What he wants he seems to get. I have sent over a hundred natives out yonder on the Saragossa, negotiated for the town's whole available supply of fresh milk, and Laird, my chief officer, is giving the party a little cruise to-night——"
"Do you know—I think it is splendid?" she exclaimed.
"What?"
"Do you happen to know of any reason why an idle ship should not be used for some such purpose?"
"None, whatever," she said demurely87, quite willing that he should adjust the matter to suit himself. His touchiness88 upon the subject of his own benefactions remanded her pleasurably of Reifferscheid. Her inward joy was to study in Peter Stock the unacknowledged influence of Father Fontanel—or was it an unconscious influence? The American's further activities unfolded:
"By the way, have you been reading the French paper here—Les Colonies?"
Paula had not.
"The editor, M. Mondet, is the smug authority for a statement yesterday that Saint Pierre is in absolutely no danger from the mountain. Now, of course, this may be true, but he doesn't know it—unless he should have the Dealer89 in Destiny on the wire. There is always a big enough percentage of foolish virgins90 in a city, so it peeved91 me to find one in the sole editorial capacity. My first impulse was to calk up the throat of M. Mondet with several sheets of his abominable92 assurances. This I restrained, but nevertheless I called upon him to-day. His next issue appears day after to-morrow, and my idea is for him to print a vigorous warning against Pelée. Why, he could clear the town of ten thousand people for a few days—until the weather settles. Incidentally, if the mountain took on a sudden destroying streak—just see what he would have done! Some glory in saving lives on that scale."
"Vine leaves, indeed," said Paula, "Did M. Mondet tell you he would print this warning?"
"Not exactly. He pointed93 out the cost of detaching a third of the city's inhabitants. I told him how this cost could be brought down within reason, and showed myself not unwilling94 to back the exodus95. I'm a practical man, Miss Wyndam, and these things look bigger than they really are. But you never can tell what a tubby little Frenchman will do. It's atrocious for a man in his position to say that a volcano won't volcane—sorely tempting96 to old Father Pelée—a sort of challenge. It would be bad enough to play Pilate and wash his hands of the city's danger—but to be a white-lipped, kissing Judas at the last supper of Saint Pierre——"
"Did you tell him that?" Paula asked hastily.
"Not in those words, Miss Wyndam, but he seemed to be a bit afraid of me—kept watching my hands and pulling at his cravat97. When he finally showed me to the door, his was the delicacy98 of one who handles dynamite99. At all events, I'm waiting for his next issue to see if my call 'took!' I really do wish that a lot of these people would forget their clothes, chickens, coals, coins, and all such, for a few days and camp somewhere between here and Fort de France."
Paula was thrilled by the American's zeal100. He was not content, now that he had begun, to deal with boatloads, but wanted to stir the city. She would have given much to know the exact part of Father Fontanel in this rousing ardor101 of her new friend. "And you really think Pelée may not hold out?" she asked.
"I'm not a monomaniac—at least, not yet," he replied, and his voice suggested a certain pent savagery102 in his brain. "Call it an experiment that I'm sufficiently103 interested in to finance. The ways of volcanoes are past the previsions of men. I'd like to get a lot of folks out of the fire-zone, until Pelée is cool—or a billion tons lighter. This ordered-up-to-Nineveh business is out of my line, but it's absorbing. I don't say that Pelée will blow his head off this week or this millennium104, but I do say that there are vaults105 of explosives in that monster, the smallest of which could make this city look like a leper's corpse106 upon the beach. I say that the internal fires are burning high; that they're already playing about the vital cap; that Pelée has already sprung several leaks, and that the same force which lifted this cheerful archipelago from the depths of the sea is pressing against the craters107 at this moment. I say that Vesuvius warned before he broke; that Krakatoa warned and then struck; that down the ages these safety valves scattered108 over the face of the earth have mercifully joggled before giving way; that Pelée is joggling now."
"If M. Mondet would write just that," Paula said softly, "I think you would have your exodus."
She sought her room shortly afterward. Pelée's moods had been variable that day. The north had been obscured by a fresh fog in the afternoon. The ash and sulphur fumes110, cruel to the lungs on the breezy Morne, six miles from the craters, gave her an intimation of the anguish111 of the people in the intervening depression where the city lay. The twilight112 had brought ease again and a ten-minute shower, so there was real freshness in the early evening. Rippling113 waves of merriment reached her from the darky quarters, as the young men from the fields came forth114 to bathe in the sea. Never before was the volatile115 tropic soul so strongly evidenced for her understanding, as in that glad hour of reaction—simple hearts to glow at little things, whose swift tragedies come and go like blighting116 winds which, though they may slay117, leave no wound; instant to gladden in the groves118 of serenity119, when a black cloud has blown by.
Her mind was sleepless120.... Once, long after midnight, when she fell into a doze121, it was only to be awakened122 by a dream of a garrote upon her throat. The ash had thickened again, and the air was acrid123. The hours seemed to fall asleep in passing. From her balcony she peered into the dead-black of the North where Pelée rumbled124 at intervals125. Back in the south, the blurred127 moon impended128 with an evil light. A faint wailing129 of children reached her from the servants' cabins. The sense of isolation130 was dreadful for a moment. It seemed to rest entirely with her that time passed at all; that she must grapple with each moment and fight it back into the past....
The Panther, a fast ship with New York mail, was due to call at Saint Pierre within forty-eight hours. Paula, to hasten the passing of time, determined131 to take the little steamer over to Fort de France for a day, if morning ever came. She must have slept an hour after this decision, for she was unconscious of the transition from darkness to the parched132 and brilliant dawn which roused her tired eyes. The glass showed her a pallid133 face, darkly-lined.
The blinding light from the East changed the dew to steam before it touched the ground. The more delicate blossoms in the gardens withered134 in that hectic135 burning before the sun was an hour high. Driving down through the city to the Landing she found the Rue10 Victor Hugo almost deserted136. The porteuses were gone from the highway; all doors were tightly shut, strangely marring the tropical effect; broken window-panes were stuffed with cloths to keep out the vitiated air. The tough little island mules137 (many in their panniers with no one leading), scarcely moved, and hugged the east walls for shade. From the by-ways she imagined the smell of death.
"Hottest morning Saint Pierre has known for years," the captain said, as she boarded the little steamer which hurriedly put off.... Night had fallen (and there had been little to break the misery138 of Saint Pierre that day), when she reached the Hotel once more. She retired139 immediately after dinner to take advantage of a fresh, south wind which came with the dark and promised to make sleep possible.... Rumblings from the volcano awoke her just before dawn. Glancing out over the harbor, she perceived the lights of a big liner lying near the Saragossa. There was no sleep after this discovery, since she felt this must be the Panther with letters from New York. According to her schedule, the steamer had cleared from Manhattan a full week after the Fruitlands. Paula breakfasted early, and inquired at the desk how soon the mails would be distributed.
"Did you arrange at the post-office to have your mail sent care of the Hotel?" the clerk inquired.
"Yes."
"The bags should be here very shortly, Miss Wyndam. The Panther anchored at two this morning."
"Please send any letters for me to my room at once," she told him, and went there to wait, so that she might be alone to read.... Madame Nestor's writing was upon one envelope, and Reifferscheid's upon another, a large one, which contained mail sent to Paula Linster in his care to be forwarded to Laura Wyndam, among them letters from Selma Cross and Quentin Charter, as well as a note from the editor himself.
The latter she read first, since the pages were loose in the big envelope. It was a joyous140, cheery message, containing a humorous account of those who called to inquire about her, a bit of the gospel of work and a hope for her health—the whole, brief, fine and tonic—like her friend.... Tearing open the Charter letter, she fell into a vortex of emotions:
This is my fifth day in New York, dear Skylark, and I have ceased trying to find you. It was not to trouble or frighten you that I searched, but because I think if you understood entirely, you would not hide from me. I hope Miss Cross has had better success than I in learning your whereabouts, because she has changed certain views regarding me. If you shared with her those former views, it is indeed important that you learn the truth, though it is not for me to put such things in a letter. I have not seen Miss Cross since that first night; nor have I had the heart yet to see The Thing. Reifferscheid tells me that you may be out of the city for two or three months. I counted him a very good friend of mine, but he treats me now with a peculiar141 aversion, such as I should consider proper for one to hold toward a wife-beater. It is all very strange and subtly terrifying—this ordeal142 for which I have been prepared. I see now that I needed the three full years of training. What I cannot quite adjust yet is that I should have made you suffer. My every thought blessed you. My thoughts bless you to-night—sweet gift of the world to me.
Live in the sun and rest, Skylark; put away all shadowy complications—and you will bring back a splendid store of energy for the tenser New York life. I could not have written so calmly a few days ago, for to have you think evil of me drove straight and swiftly to the very centres of sanity—but I have won back through thoughts of you, a noon-day courage; and it has come to me that our truer relation is but beginning.
I have not yet the fibre for work; New York is empty without you, as my garret would be without your singing. I shall go away somewhere for a little, leaving my itinerary—when I decide upon it—at the Granville. Some time soon I shall hear from you. All shall be restored—even serenity to your beautiful spirit. I only suffer now in that it proved business of mine to bring you agony. I wanted to make you glad through and through; to lift your spirit, not to weight it down; to make you wiser, happier,—to keep you winged. This, as I know the truth, has been my constant outbreathing to you....
My window at the Granville faces the East—the East to which I have come—yet from the old ways, I still look to the East for you. New York has found her Spring—a warm, almost vernal night, this, and I smell the sea.... Two big, gray dusty moths143 are fluttering at the glass—softly, eagerly to get at the light—as if they knew best.... They have found the way in, for the window was partly open, and have burned their wings at the electric bulb. The analogy is inevitable144 ... but you would not be hurt, for flame would meet flame.... I turned off the light a moment and remembered that you have already been hurt, but that was rather because flame was not restored by flame....
One moth16 has gone away. The other has curled up on my table like a faded cotton umbrella. So many murder the soul this way in the pursuit of dead intellectual brilliance145....
Bless your warm heart that brims with singing—singing which I must hear again.... An old sensation comes to me now as I cease to write. My garret always used to grow empty and heartless—as I closed and sealed a letter to you.... You are radiant in the heart of Quentin Charter.
She was unconscious of passing time, until her eye was attracted by the heavy handwriting of Selma Cross upon a Herriot Theatre envelope. This communication was an attempt to clear herself with Paula, whose intrinsic clarity had always attracted truth from the actress; also it seemed to contain a struggle to adjust herself, when once she began to write, to the garment of nettles146 she had woven from mixed motives147.
I am almost frantic148 searching for you. I knew you were in the hall that night, because I saw your hat as you started to walk down. Charter was saying things about the stage that made me want to shut the door, but I must tell you why I made him come there. When it occurred to me how horribly you had been hurt by my disclosures regarding him, the thought drove home that there might be some mistake. You would not see him, so I sent a telephone-message to the Granville for him to call. He, of course, thought the message from you. Indeed, he would not have come otherwise. He avoided me before, and that night, he certainly would have seen no one but you. Our elevator-man at the Zoroaster had orders from me to show a gentleman inquiring for you about seven, to my apartment.
My thought was, to learn if by any possibility I was wrong in what I had told you. I even thought I might call you in that night. Anyway, you would be just across the hall—to hear at once any good word. He thought at first that it was a trap that we had arranged—that you were somewhere in the apartment listening! Oh, I'm all in a welter of words—there is so much, and your big brute of an editor would give me no help. The woman in your rooms is quite as blank about you. I never beat so helplessly against a wall.
But here's the truth: Charter did not talk about our relations. Villiers had a spy watching all our movements—and was thus informed. Then, when he got back, Villiers told me that Charter had talked to men—all the things that his spy had learned. He did this to make me hate Charter. This is the real truth. Charter seems to have become a monk149 in the three years. This is not so pleasant to write as it will be for you to read, but he would not even mention your name in my room! I want to say that if it is not you—some woman has the new Quentin Charter heart and soul. I could have done the thing better, but the dramatic possibility of calling him to the Zoroaster blinded my judgment150, and what a hideous151 farce152 it turned out! But you have the truth, and I, my lesson. Please forgive your fond old neighbor—who wasn't started out with all the breeding in the world, but who meant to be square with you.
Paula felt that she could go down into the tortured city at this moment with healing for every woe153. She paced the room, and with outstretched arms, poured forth an ecstasy154 of gratitude for his sake; for the restoration of her Tower; for this new and glorious meaning of her womanhood. The thought of returning to New York by the first boat occurred; and the advisability of cabling Quentin Charter for his ease of mind.... At all events, the time of the next steamer's leaving for New York must be ascertained155 at once. She was putting on her hat, when Madame Nestor's unopened letter checked her precipitation. The first line brought back old fears:
I'm afraid I have betrayed you, my beloved Paula. It is hard that my poor life should be capable of this. Less than two hours ago, as I was busied about the apartment, the bell rang and I answered. At the door stood Bellingham. He caught my eyes and held them. I remember that instant, the suffocation,—the desperate but vain struggle to keep my self-control. Alas156, he had subjected my will too thoroughly157 long ago. Almost instantly, I succumbed158 to the old mastery.... When his control was lifted, I was still standing by the opened door, but he was gone. The elevator was at the ground-floor. He must have passed by me and into the apartment, for one of your photographs was gone. I don't think he came for that, though of course it will help him to concentrate I cannot tell what else happened in the interval126, but my dreadful fear is that he made me divulge159 your place of refuge. What other purpose could he have? It is almost unbearable160 that I should be forced to tell him—when I love you so—if, indeed, that has come to pass.... He has altered terribly since the accident. I think he has lost certain of his powers—that his thwarted161 desire is murdering him. He did not formerly162 need a photograph to concentrate. His eyes burned into mine like a wolf's. I know, even in my sorrow, that yours is to be the victory. He is breaking up or he would not come to you....
For a moment or two Paula was conscious of Pelée, and the gray menace that charged the burnt-out air.
Then came the thought of Father Fontanel and the door that was never locked; and presently her new joy returned with ever-rising vibration—until the long-abated powers of her life were fully109 vitalized again.... She was wondering, as she stepped into the hall and turned the key in her door, if she would be considered rather tumultuous in cabling Charter.... At the stairway, she halted, fearing at first some new mental seizure163; then every faculty164 furiously-nerved, she listened at the balustrade for the repetition of a voice that an instant before had thrilled her to the soul.... There had only been a sentence or two from the Voice. Peter Stock was now replying:
"He's a man-servant of the devil, this pudgy editor," he said striding up and down the lower hall in his rage. "A few days ago I called upon him, and in sweet modesty165 and limping French explained the proper policy for him to take about this volcano. To-day he devotes a half-column of insufferable humor to my force of character and alarmist views. Oh, the flakiness of the French mind! M. Mondet certainly fascinates me. I shall have to call upon him again."
Paula heard the low laugh of the other and the words:
"Let's sit down, Mr. Stock. I want to hear all about the editor and the mountain. I was getting to sea somewhere, when the New York papers ran a line about Pelée's activity. It started luring166 memories, and I berthed167 at once for Saint Pierre. It was mighty168 good to see the Saragossa lying familiarly in the roadstead——"
Trailing her fingers along the wall to steady herself, Paula made her way back to the door of her room, which she fumblingly169 unlocked.
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rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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5
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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6
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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7
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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8
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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9
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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10
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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11
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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12
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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15
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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16
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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17
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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18
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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19
pervasive
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| adj.普遍的；遍布的，(到处)弥漫的；渗透性的 | |
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20
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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21
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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22
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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24
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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25
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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26
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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27
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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28
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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29
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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30
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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31
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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33
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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35
valor
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| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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36
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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37
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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38
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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39
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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40
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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41
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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42
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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43
rift
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| n.裂口，隙缝，切口；v.裂开，割开，渗入 | |
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44
arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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45
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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46
plow
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| n.犁，耕地，犁过的地；v.犁，费力地前进[英]plough | |
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47
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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48
anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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49
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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50
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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51
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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52
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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53
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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54
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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55
savored
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的过去式和过去分词 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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56
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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57
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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58
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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59
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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60
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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61
complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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62
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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64
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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65
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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66
contraction
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| n.缩略词，缩写式，害病 | |
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67
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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68
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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69
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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70
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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71
proprietary
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| n.所有权，所有的；独占的；业主 | |
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72
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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73
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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74
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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75
cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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76
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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77
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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78
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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79
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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80
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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81
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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82
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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83
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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84
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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85
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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86
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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87
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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88
touchiness
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| n.易动气，过分敏感 | |
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89
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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90
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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91
peeved
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|
| adj.恼怒的，不高兴的v.（使）气恼，（使）焦躁，（使）愤怒( peeve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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93
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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94
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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95
exodus
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| v.大批离去，成群外出 | |
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96
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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97
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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98
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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99
dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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100
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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101
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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102
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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103
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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104
millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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105
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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106
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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107
craters
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| n.火山口( crater的名词复数 )；弹坑等 | |
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108
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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109
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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110
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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111
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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112
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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113
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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114
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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115
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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116
blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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117
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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118
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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119
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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120
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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121
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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122
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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123
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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124
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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125
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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126
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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127
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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128
impended
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| v.进行威胁，即将发生( impend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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130
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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131
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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132
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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133
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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134
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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135
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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136
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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138
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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139
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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140
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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141
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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142
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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143
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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144
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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145
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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146
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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147
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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148
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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149
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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150
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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151
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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152
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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153
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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154
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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155
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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157
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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158
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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159
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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160
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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161
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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162
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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163
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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164
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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165
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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166
luring
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的现在分词形式） | |
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167
berthed
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| v.停泊( berth的过去式和过去分词 )；占铺位 | |
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168
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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169
fumblingly
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| 令人羞辱地 | |
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