Generations before, the name had been "Larsen." His race had bequeathed him its fine-strung, melancholy7 temperament8, its saving balance of thrift9 and industry.
From his point of perspective he saw himself an outcast from society, forever to be a shady skulker10 along the ragged11 edge of respectability; a denizen12 des trois-quartz de monde, that pathetic spheroid lying between the haut and the demi, whose inhabitants envy each of their neighbours, and are scorned by both. He was self-condemned to this opinion, as he was self-exiled, through it, to this quaint13 Southern city a thousand miles from his former home. Here he had dwelt for longer than a year, knowing but few, keeping in a subjective14 world of shadows which was invaded at times by the perplexing bulks of jarring realities. Then he fell in love with a girl whom he met in a cheap restaurant, and his story begins.
The Rue15 Chartres, in New Orleans, is a street of ghosts. It lies in the quarter where the Frenchman, in his prime, set up his translated pride and glory; where, also, the arrogant16 don had swaggered, and dreamed of gold and grants and ladies' gloves. Every flagstone has its grooves17 worn by footsteps going royally to the wooing and the fighting. Every house has a princely heartbreak; each doorway18 its untold19 tale of gallant20 promise and slow decay.
By night the Rue Chartres is now but a murky21 fissure22, from which the groping wayfarer23 sees, flung against the sky, the tangled24 filigree25 of Moorish26 iron balconies. The old houses of monsieur stand yet, indomitable against the century, but their essence is gone. The street is one of ghosts to whosoever can see them.
A faint heartbeat of the street's ancient glory still survives in a corner occupied by the Café Carabine d'Or. Once men gathered there to plot against kings, and to warn presidents. They do so yet, but they are not the same kind of men. A brass27 button will scatter28 these; those would have set their faces against an army. Above the door hangs the sign board, upon which has been depicted29 a vast animal of unfamiliar30 species. In the act of firing upon this monster is represented an unobtrusive human levelling an obtrusive31 gun, once the colour of bright gold. Now the legend above the picture is faded beyond conjecture32; the gun's relation to the title is a matter of faith; the menaced animal, wearied of the long aim of the hunter, has resolved itself into a shapeless blot33.
The place is known as "Antonio's," as the name, white upon the red-lit transparency, and gilt34 upon the windows, attests35. There is a promise in "Antonio"; a justifiable36 expectancy37 of savoury things in oil and pepper and wine, and perhaps an angel's whisper of garlic. But the rest of the name is "O'Riley." Antonio O'Riley!
The Carabine d'Or is an ignominious38 ghost of the Rue Chartres. The café where Bienville and Conti dined, where a prince has broken bread, is become a "family ristaurant."
Its customers are working men and women, almost to a unit. Occasionally you will see chorus girls from the cheaper theatres, and men who follow avocations39 subject to quick vicissitudes40; but at Antonio's—name rich in Bohemian promise, but tame in fulfillment—manners debonair41 and gay are toned down to the "family" standard. Should you light a cigarette, mine host will touch you on the "arrum" and remind you that the proprieties42 are menaced. "Antonio" entices43 and beguiles44 from fiery45 legend without, but "O'Riley" teaches decorum within.
It was at this restaurant that Lorison first saw the girl. A flashy fellow with a predatory eye had followed her in, and had advanced to take the other chair at the little table where she stopped, but Lorison slipped into the seat before him. Their acquaintance began, and grew, and now for two months they had sat at the same table each evening, not meeting by appointment, but as if by a series of fortuitous and happy accidents. After dining, they would take a walk together in one of the little city parks, or among the panoramic46 markets where exhibits a continuous vaudeville47 of sights and sounds. Always at eight o'clock their steps led them to a certain street corner, where she prettily48 but firmly bade him good night and left him. "I do not live far from here," she frequently said, "and you must let me go the rest of the way alone."
But now Lorison had discovered that he wanted to go the rest of the way with her, or happiness would depart, leaving, him on a very lonely corner of life. And at the same time that he made the discovery, the secret of his banishment49 from the society of the good laid its finger in his face and told him it must not be.
Man is too thoroughly50 an egoist not to be also an egotist; if he love, the object shall know it. During a lifetime he may conceal51 it through stress of expediency52 and honour, but it shall bubble from his dying lips, though it disrupt a neighbourhood. It is known, however, that most men do not wait so long to disclose their passion. In the case of Lorison, his particular ethics53 positively54 forbade him to declare his sentiments, but he must needs dally55 with the subject, and woo by innuendo56 at least.
On this night, after the usual meal at the Carabine d'Or, he strolled with his companion down the dim old street toward the river.
The Rue Chartres perishes in the old Place d'Armes. The ancient Cabildo, where Spanish justice fell like hail, faces it, and the Cathedral, another provincial57 ghost, overlooks it. Its centre is a little, iron-railed park of flowers and immaculate gravelled walks, where citizens take the air of evenings. Pedestalled high above it, the general sits his cavorting58 steed, with his face turned stonily59 down the river toward English Turn, whence come no more Britons to bombard his cotton bales.
Often the two sat in this square, but to-night Lorison guided her past the stone-stepped gate, and still riverward. As they walked, he smiled to himself to think that all he knew of her—except that be loved her—was her name, Norah Greenway, and that she lived with her brother. They had talked about everything except themselves. Perhaps her reticence60 had been caused by his.
They came, at length, upon the levee, and sat upon a great, prostrate61 beam. The air was pungent62 with the dust of commerce. The great river slipped yellowly past. Across it Algiers lay, a longitudinous black bulk against a vibrant63 electric haze64 sprinkled with exact stars.
The girl was young and of the piquant65 order. A certain bright melancholy pervaded66 her; she possessed an untarnished, pale prettiness doomed67 to please. Her voice, when she spoke69, dwarfed70 her theme. It was the voice capable of investing little subjects with a large interest. She sat at ease, bestowing71 her skirts with the little womanly touch, serene as if the begrimed pier72 were a summer garden. Lorison poked73 the rotting boards with his cane74.
He began by telling her that he was in love with some one to whom he durst not speak of it. "And why not?" she asked, accepting swiftly his fatuous75 presentation of a third person of straw. "My place in the world," he answered, "is none to ask a woman to share. I am an outcast from honest people; I am wrongly accused of one crime, and am, I believe, guilty of another."
Thence he plunged77 into the story of his abdication78 from society. The story, pruned79 of his moral philosophy, deserves no more than the slightest touch. It is no new tale, that of the gambler's declension. During one night's sitting he lost, and then had imperilled a certain amount of his employer's money, which, by accident, he carried with him. He continued to lose, to the last wager80, and then began to gain, leaving the game winner to a somewhat formidable sum. The same night his employer's safe was robbed. A search was had; the winnings of Lorison were found in his room, their total forming an accusative nearness to the sum purloined81. He was taken, tried and, through incomplete evidence, released, smutched with the sinister82 devoirs of a disagreeing jury.
"It is not in the unjust accusation," he said to the girl, "that my burden lies, but in the knowledge that from the moment I staked the first dollar of the firm's money I was a criminal—no matter whether I lost or won. You see why it is impossible for me to speak of love to her."
"It is a sad thing," said Norah, after a little pause, "to think what very good people there are in the world."
"Good?" said Lorison.
"I was thinking of this superior person whom you say you love. She must be a very poor sort of creature."
"I do not understand."
"Nearly," she continued, "as poor a sort of creature as yourself."
"You do not understand," said Lorison, removing his hat and sweeping83 back his fine, light hair. "Suppose she loved me in return, and were willing to marry me. Think, if you can, what would follow. Never a day would pass but she would be reminded of her sacrifice. I would read a condescension84 in her smile, a pity even in her affection, that would madden me. No. The thing would stand between us forever. Only equals should mate. I could never ask her to come down upon my lower plane."
An arc light faintly shone upon Lorison's face. An illumination from within also pervaded it. The girl saw the rapt, ascetic85 look; it was the face either of Sir Galahad or Sir Fool.
"Quite starlike," she said, "is this unapproachable angel. Really too high to be grasped."
"By me, yes."
She faced him suddenly. "My dear friend, would you prefer your star fallen?" Lorison made a wide gesture.
"You push me to the bald fact," he declared; "you are not in sympathy with my argument. But I will answer you so. If I could reach my particular star, to drag it down, I would not do it; but if it were fallen, I would pick it up, and thank Heaven for the privilege."
They were silent for some minutes. Norah shivered, and thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket. Lorison uttered a remorseful87 exclamation88.
"I'm not cold," she said. "I was just thinking. I ought to tell you something. You have selected a strange confidante. But you cannot expect a chance acquaintance, picked up in a doubtful restaurant, to be an angel."
"Norah!" cried Lorison.
"Let me go on. You have told me about yourself. We have been such good friends. I must tell you now what I never wanted you to know. I am—worse than you are. I was on the stage . . . I sang in the chorus . . . I was pretty bad, I guess . . . I stole diamonds from the prima donna . . . they arrested me . . . I gave most of them up, and they let me go . . . I drank wine every night . . . a great deal . . . I was very wicked, but—"
Lorison knelt quickly by her side and took her hands.
"Dear Norah!" he said, exultantly89. "It is you, it is you I love! You never guessed it, did you? 'Tis you I meant all the time. Now I can speak. Let me make you forget the past. We have both suffered; let us shut out the world, and live for each other. Norah, do you hear me say I love you?"
"In spite of—"
"Rather say because of it. You have come out of your past noble and good. Your heart is an angel's. Give it to me."
"A little while ago you feared the future too much to even speak."
"But for you; not for myself. Can you love me?"
"Better than life—than truth itself—than everything."
"And my own past," said Lorison, with a note of solicitude—"can you forgive and—"
"I answered you that," she whispered, "when I told you I loved you." She leaned away, and looked thoughtfully at him. "If I had not told you about myself, would you have—would you—"
"No," he interrupted; "I would never have let you know I loved you. I would never have asked you this—Norah, will you be my wife?"
She wept again.
"Oh, believe me; I am good now—I am no longer wicked! I will be the best wife in the world. Don't think I am—bad any more. If you do I shall die, I shall die!"
While he was consoling, her, she brightened up, eager and impetuous. "Will you marry me to-night?" she said. "Will you prove it that way. I have a reason for wishing it to be to-night. Will you?"
Of one of two things was this exceeding frankness the outcome: either of importunate91 brazenness92 or of utter innocence93. The lover's perspective contained only the one.
"The sooner," said Lorison, "the happier I shall be."
"What is there to do?" she asked. "What do you have to get? Come! You should know."
Her energy stirred the dreamer to action.
"A city directory first," he cried, gayly, "to find where the man lives who gives licenses94 to happiness. We will go together and rout96 him out. Cabs, cars, policemen, telephones and ministers shall aid us."
"Father Rogan shall marry us," said the girl, with ardour. "I will take you to him."
An hour later the two stood at the open doorway of an immense, gloomy brick building in a narrow and lonely street. The license95 was tight in Norah's hand.
"Wait here a moment," she said, "till I find Father Rogan."
She plunged into the black hallway, and the lover was left standing97, as it were, on one leg, outside. His impatience98 was not greatly taxed. Gazing curiously99 into what seemed the hallway to Erebus, he was presently reassured100 by a stream of light that bisected the darkness, far down the passage. Then he heard her call, and fluttered lampward, like the moth101. She beckoned102 him through a doorway into the room whence emanated103 the light. The room was bare of nearly everything except books, which had subjugated104 all its space. Here and there little spots of territory had been reconquered. An elderly, bald man, with a superlatively calm, remote eye, stood by a table with a book in his hand, his finger still marking a page. His dress was sombre and appertained to a religious order. His eye denoted an acquaintance with the perspective.
"Father Rogan," said Norah, "this is he."
"The two of ye," said Father Rogan, "want to get married?"
They did not deny it. He married them. The ceremony was quickly done. One who could have witnessed it, and felt its scope, might have trembled at the terrible inadequacy105 of it to rise to the dignity of its endless chain of results.
Afterward106 the priest spake briefly107, as if by rote108, of certain other civil and legal addenda109 that either might or should, at a later time, cap the ceremony. Lorison tendered a fee, which was declined, and before the door closed after the departing couple Father Rogan's book popped open again where his finger marked it.
In the dark hall Norah whirled and clung to her companion, tearful.
"Will you never, never be sorry?"
At last she was reassured.
At the first light they reached upon the street, she asked the time, just as she had each night. Lorison looked at his watch. Half-past eight.
Lorison thought it was from habit that she guided their steps toward the corner where they always parted. But, arrived there, she hesitated, and then released his arm. A drug store stood on the corner; its bright, soft light shone upon them.
"Please leave me here as usual to-night," said Norah, sweetly. "I must—I would rather you would. You will not object? At six to-morrow evening I will meet you at Antonio's. I want to sit with you there once more. And then—I will go where you say." She gave him a bewildering, bright smile, and walked swiftly away.
Surely it needed all the strength of her charm to carry off this astounding110 behaviour. It was no discredit111 to Lorison's strength of mind that his head began to whirl. Pocketing his hands, he rambled112 vacuously113 over to the druggist's windows, and began assiduously to spell over the names of the patent medicines therein displayed.
As soon as be had recovered his wits, he proceeded along the street in an aimless fashion. After drifting for two or three squares, he flowed into a somewhat more pretentious114 thoroughfare, a way much frequented by him in his solitary115 ramblings. For here was a row of shops devoted116 to traffic in goods of the widest range of choice—handiworks of art, skill and fancy, products of nature and labour from every zone.
Here, for a time, he loitered among the conspicuous117 windows, where was set, emphasized by congested floods of light, the cunningest spoil of the interiors. There were few passers, and of this Lorison was glad. He was not of the world. For a long time he had touched his fellow man only at the gear of a levelled cog-wheel—at right angles, and upon a different axis118. He had dropped into a distinctly new orbit. The stroke of ill fortune had acted upon him, in effect, as a blow delivered upon the apex119 of a certain ingenious toy, the musical top, which, when thus buffeted120 while spinning, gives forth121, with scarcely retarded122 motion, a complete change of key and chord.
Strolling along the pacific avenue, he experienced singular, supernatural calm, accompanied by an unusual a activity of brain. Reflecting upon recent affairs, he assured himself of his happiness in having won for a bride the one he had so greatly desired, yet he wondered mildly at his dearth123 of active emotion. Her strange behaviour in abandoning him without valid124 excuse on his bridal eve aroused in him only a vague and curious speculation125. Again, he found himself contemplating126, with complaisant127 serenity128, the incidents of her somewhat lively career. His perspective seemed to have been queerly shifted.
As he stood before a window near a corner, his ears were assailed129 by a waxing clamour and commotion130. He stood close to the window to allow passage to the cause of the hubbub—a procession of human beings, which rounded the corner and headed in his direction. He perceived a salient hue131 of blue and a glitter of brass about a central figure of dazzling white and silver, and a ragged wake of black, bobbing figures.
Two ponderous132 policemen were conducting between them a woman dressed as if for the stage, in a short, white, satiny skirt reaching to the knees, pink stockings, and a sort of sleeveless bodice bright with relucent, armour-like scales. Upon her curly, light hair was perched, at a rollicking angle, a shining tin helmet. The costume was to be instantly recognized as one of those amazing conceptions to which competition has harried133 the inventors of the spectacular ballet. One of the officers bore a long cloak upon his arm, which, doubtless, had been intended to veil the I candid134 attractions of their effulgent135 prisoner, but, for some reason, it had not been called into use, to the vociferous136 delight of the tail of the procession.
Compelled by a sudden and vigorous movement of the woman, the parade halted before the window by which Lorison stood. He saw that she was young, and, at the first glance, was deceived by a sophistical prettiness of her face, which waned137 before a more judicious138 scrutiny139. Her look was bold and reckless, and upon her countenance140, where yet the contours of youth survived, were the finger-marks of old age's credentialed courier, Late Hours.
The young woman fixed141 her unshrinking gaze upon Lorison, and called to him in the voice of the wronged heroine in straits:
"Say! You look like a good fellow; come and put up the bail142, won't you? I've done nothing to get pinched for. It's all a mistake. See how they're treating me! You won't be sorry, if you'll help me out of this. Think of your sister or your girl being dragged along the streets this way! I say, come along now, like a good fellow."
It may be that Lorison, in spite of the unconvincing bathos of this appeal, showed a sympathetic face, for one of the officers left the woman's side, and went over to him.
"It's all right, Sir," he said, in a husky, confidential143 tone; "she's the right party. We took her after the first act at the Green Light Theatre, on a wire from the chief of police of Chicago. It's only a square or two to the station. Her rig's pretty bad, but she refused to change clothes—or, rather," added the officer, with a smile, "to put on some. I thought I'd explain matters to you so you wouldn't think she was being imposed upon."
"What is the charge?" asked Lorison.
"Grand larceny144. Diamonds. Her husband is a jeweller in Chicago. She cleaned his show case of the sparklers, and skipped with a comic-opera troupe145."
The policeman, perceiving that the interest of the entire group of spectators was centred upon himself and Lorison—their conference being regarded as a possible new complication—was fain to prolong the situation—which reflected his own importance—by a little afterpiece of philosophical146 comment.
"A gentleman like you, Sir," he went on affably, "would never notice it, but it comes in my line to observe what an immense amount of trouble is made by that combination—I mean the stage, diamonds and light-headed women who aren't satisfied with good homes. I tell you, Sir, a man these days and nights wants to know what his women folks are up to."
The policeman smiled a good night, and returned to the side of his charge, who had been intently watching Lorison's face during the conversation, no doubt for some indication of his intention to render succour. Now, at the failure of the sign, and at the movement made to continue the ignominious progress, she abandoned hope, and addressed him thus, pointedly147:
"You damn chalk-faced quitter! You was thinking of giving me a hand, but you let the cop talk you out of it the first word. You're a dandy to tie to. Say, if you ever get a girl, she'll have a picnic. Won't she work you to the queen's taste! Oh, my!" She concluded with a taunting148, shrill149 laugh that rasped Lorison like a saw. The policemen urged her forward; the delighted train of gaping150 followers151 closed up the rear; and the captive Amazon, accepting her fate, extended the scope of her maledictions so that none in hearing might seem to be slighted.
Then there came upon Lorison an overwhelming revulsion of his perspective. It may be that he had been ripe for it, that the abnormal condition of mind in which he had for so long existed was already about to revert152 to its balance; however, it is certain that the events of the last few minutes had furnished the channel, if not the impetus153, for the change.
The initial determining influence had been so small a thing as the fact and manner of his having been approached by the officer. That agent had, by the style of his accost154, restored the loiterer to his former place in society. In an instant he had been transformed from a somewhat rancid prowler along the fishy155 side streets of gentility into an honest gentleman, with whom even so lordly a guardian156 of the peace might agreeably exchange the compliments.
This, then, first broke the spell, and set thrilling in him a resurrected longing157 for the fellowship of his kind, and the rewards of the virtuous158. To what end, he vehemently159 asked himself, was this fanciful self-accusation, this empty renunciation, this moral squeamishness through which he had been led to abandon what was his heritage in life, and not beyond his deserts? Technically160, he was uncondemned; his sole guilty spot was in thought rather than deed, and cognizance of it unshared by others. For what good, moral or sentimental161, did he slink, retreating like the hedgehog from his own shadow, to and fro in this musty Bohemia that lacked even the picturesque162?
But the thing that struck home and set him raging was the part played by the Amazonian prisoner. To the counterpart of that astounding belligerent—identical at least, in the way of experience—to one, by her own confession163, thus far fallen, had he, not three hours since, been united in marriage. How desirable and natural it had seemed to him then, and how monstrous164 it seemed now! How the words of diamond thief number two yet burned in his ears: "If you ever get a girl, she'll have a picnic." What did that mean but that women instinctively165 knew him for one they could hoodwink? Still again, there reverberated166 the policeman's sapient167 contribution to his agony: "A man these days and nights wants to know what his women folks are up to." Oh, yes, he had been a fool; he had looked at things from the wrong standpoint.
But the wildest note in all the clamour was struck by pain's forefinger168, jealousy169. Now, at least, he felt that keenest sting—a mounting love unworthily bestowed170. Whatever she might be, he loved her; he bore in his own breast his doom68. A grating, comic flavour to his predicament struck him suddenly, and he laughed creakingly as he swung down the echoing pavement. An impetuous desire to act, to battle with his fate, seized him. He stopped upon his heel, and smote171 his palms together triumphantly172. His wife was—where? But there was a tangible173 link; an outlet174 more or less navigable, through which his derelict ship of matrimony might yet be safely towed—the priest!
Like all imaginative men with pliable175 natures, Lorison was, when thoroughly stirred, apt to become tempestuous176. With a high and stubborn indignation upon him, be retraced177 his steps to the intersecting street by which he had come. Down this he hurried to the corner where he had parted with—an astringent178 grimace179 tinctured the thought—his wife. Thence still back he harked, following through an unfamiliar district his stimulated180 recollections of the way they had come from that preposterous181 wedding. Many times he went abroad, and nosed his way back to the trail, furious.
At last, when he reached the dark, calamitous182 building in which his madness had culminated183, and found the black hallway, he dashed down it, perceiving no light or sound. But he raised his voice, hailing loudly; reckless of everything but that he should find the old mischief-maker with the eyes that looked too far away to see the disaster he had wrought184. The door opened, and in the stream of light Father Rogan stood, his book in hand, with his finger marking the place.
"Ah!" cried Lorison. "You are the man I want. I had a wife of you a few hours ago. I would not trouble you, but I neglected to note how it was done. Will you oblige me with the information whether the business is beyond remedy?"
"Come inside," said the priest; "there are other lodgers185 in the house, who might prefer sleep to even a gratified curiosity."
Lorison entered the room and took the chair offered him. The priest's eyes looked a courteous186 interrogation.
"I must apologize again," said the young man, "for so soon intruding187 upon you with my marital188 infelicities, but, as my wife has neglected to furnish me with her address, I am deprived of the legitimate189 recourse of a family row."
"I am quite a plain man," said Father Rogan, pleasantly; "but I do not see how I am to ask you questions."
"Pardon my indirectness," said Lorison; "I will ask one. In this room to-night you pronounced me to be a husband. You afterward spoke of additional rites190 or performances that either should or could be effected. I paid little attention to your words then, but I am hungry to hear them repeated now. As matters stand, am I married past all help?"
"You are as legally and as firmly bound," said the priest, "as though it had been done in a cathedral, in the presence of thousands. The additional observances I referred to are not necessary to the strictest legality of the act, but were advised as a precaution for the future—for convenience of proof in such contingencies191 as wills, inheritances and the like."
Lorison laughed harshly.
"Many thanks," he said. "Then there is no mistake, and I am the happy benedict. I suppose I should go stand upon the bridal corner, and when my wife gets through walking the streets she will look me up."
Father Rogan regarded him calmly.
"My son," he said, "when a man and woman come to me to be married I always marry them. I do this for the sake of other people whom they might go away and marry if they did not marry each other. As you see, I do not seek your confidence; but your case seems to me to be one not altogether devoid192 of interest. Very few marriages that have come to my notice have brought such well-expressed regret within so short a time. I will hazard one question: were you not under the impression that you loved the lady you married, at the time you did so;"
"Loved her!" cried Lorison, wildly. "Never so well as now, though she told me she deceived and sinned and stole. Never more than now, when, perhaps, she is laughing at the fool she cajoled and left, with scarcely a word, to return to God only knows what particular line of her former folly."
Father Rogan answered nothing. During the silence that succeeded, he sat with a quiet expectation beaming in his full, lambent eye.
"If you would listen—" began Lorison. The priest held up his hand.
"As I hoped," he said. "I thought you would trust me. Wait but a moment." He brought a long clay pipe, filled and lighted it.
"Now, my son," he said.
Lorison poured a twelve month's accumulated confidence into Father Rogan's ear. He told all; not sparing himself or omitting the facts of his past, the events of the night, or his disturbing conjectures193 and fears.
"The main point," said the priest, when he had concluded, "seems to me to be this—are you reasonably sure that you love this woman whom you have married?"
"Why," exclaimed Lorison, rising impulsively194 to his feet—"why should I deny it? But look at me—am fish, flesh or fowl195? That is the main point to me, I assure you."
"I understand you," said the priest, also rising, and laying down his pipe. "The situation is one that has taxed the endurance of much older men than you—in fact, especially much older men than you. I will try to relieve you from it, and this night. You shall see for yourself into exactly what predicament you have fallen, and how you shall, possibly, be extricated196. There is no evidence so credible197 as that of the eyesight."
Father Rogan moved about the room, and donned a soft black hat. Buttoning his coat to his throat, he laid his hand on the doorknob. "Let us walk," he said.
The two went out upon the street. The priest turned his face down it, and Lorison walked with him through a squalid district, where the houses loomed198, awry199 and desolate-looking, high above them. Presently they turned into a less dismal200 side street, where the houses were smaller, and, though hinting of the most meagre comfort, lacked the concentrated wretchedness of the more populous201 byways.
At a segregated202, two-story house Father Rogan halted, and mounted the steps with the confidence of a familiar visitor. He ushered203 Lorison into a narrow hallway, faintly lighted by a cobwebbed hanging lamp. Almost immediately a door to the right opened and a dingy204 Irishwoman protruded205 her head.
"Good evening to ye, Mistress Geehan," said the priest, unconsciously, it seemed, falling into a delicately flavoured brogue. "And is it yourself can tell me if Norah has gone out again, the night, maybe?"
"Oh, it's yer blissid riverence! Sure and I can tell ye the same. The purty darlin' wint out, as usual, but a bit later. And she says: 'Mother Geehan,' says she, 'it's me last noight out, praise the saints, this noight is!' And, oh, yer riverence, the swate, beautiful drame of a dress she had this toime! White satin and silk and ribbons, and lace about the neck and arrums—'twas a sin, yer reverence206, the gold was spint upon it."
The priest heard Lorison catch his breath painfully, and a faint smile flickered207 across his own clean-cut mouth.
"Well, then, Mistress Geehan," said he, "I'll just step upstairs and see the bit boy for a minute, and I'll take this gentleman up with me."
"He's awake, thin," said the woman. 'I've just come down from sitting wid him the last hour, tilling him fine shtories of ould County Tyrone. 'Tis a greedy gossoon, it is, yer riverence, for me shtories."
"Small the doubt," said Father Rogan. "There's no rocking would put him to slape the quicker, I'm thinking."
Amid the woman's shrill protest against the retort, the two men ascended208 the steep stairway. The priest pushed open the door of a room near its top.
"Is that you already, sister?" drawled a sweet, childish voice from the darkness.
"It's only ould Father Denny come to see ye, darlin'; and a foine gentleman I've brought to make ye a gr-r-and call. And ye resaves us fast aslape in bed! Shame on yez manners!"
"Oh, Father Denny, is that you? I'm glad. And will you light the lamp, please? It's on the table by the door. And quit talking like Mother Geehan, Father Denny."
The priest lit the lamp, and Lorison saw a tiny, towsled-haired boy, with a thin, delicate face, sitting up in a small bed in a corner. Quickly, also, his rapid glance considered the room and its contents. It was furnished with more than comfort, and its adornments plainly indicated a woman's discerning taste. An open door beyond revealed the blackness of an adjoining room's interior.
The boy clutched both of Father Rogan's hands. "I'm so glad you came," he said; "but why did you come in the night? Did sister send you?"
"Off wid ye! Am I to be sint about, at me age, as was Terence McShane, of Ballymahone? I come on me own r-r-responsibility."
Lorison had also advanced to the boy's bedside. He was fond of children; and the wee fellow, laying himself down to sleep alone in that dark room, stirred-his heart.
"Aren't you afraid, little man?" he asked, stooping down beside him.
"Sometimes," answered the boy, with a shy smile, "when the rats make too much noise. But nearly every night, when sister goes out, Mother Geehan stays a while with me, and tells me funny stories. I'm not often afraid, sir."
"This brave little gentleman," said Father Rogan, "is a scholar of mine. Every day from half-past six to half-past eight—when sister comes for him—he stops in my study, and we find out what's in the inside of books. He knows multiplication209, division and fractions; and he's troubling me to begin wid the chronicles of Ciaran of Clonmacnoise, Corurac McCullenan and Cuan O'Lochain, the gr-r-reat Irish histhorians." The boy was evidently accustomed to the priest's Celtic pleasantries. A little, appreciative210 grin was all the attention the insinuation of pedantry211 received.
Lorison, to have saved his life, could not have put to the child one of those vital questions that were wildly beating about, unanswered, in his own brain. The little fellow was very like Norah; he had the same shining hair and candid eyes.
"Oh, Father Denny," cried the boy, suddenly, "I forgot to tell you! Sister is not going away at night any more! She told me so when she kissed me good night as she was leaving. And she said she was so happy, and then she cried. Wasn't that queer? But I'm glad; aren't you?"
"Yes, lad. And now, ye omadhaun, go to sleep, and say good night; we must be going."
"Which shall I do first, Father Denny?"
"Faith, he's caught me again! Wait till I get the sassenach into the annals of Tageruach, the hagiographer; I'll give him enough of the Irish idiom to make him more respectful."
The light was out, and the small, brave voice bidding them good night from the dark room. They groped downstairs, and tore away from the garrulity212 of Mother Geehan.
Again the priest steered213 them through the dim ways, but this time in another direction. His conductor was serenely214 silent, and Lorison followed his example to the extent of seldom speaking. Serene he could not be. His heart beat suffocatingly215 in his breast. The following of this blind, menacing trail was pregnant with he knew not what humiliating revelation to be delivered at its end.
They came into a more pretentious street, where trade, it could be surmised216, flourished by day. And again the priest paused; this time before a lofty building, whose great doors and windows in the lowest floor were carefully shuttered and barred. Its higher apertures217 were dark, save in the third story, the windows of which were brilliantly lighted. Lorison's ear caught a distant, regular, pleasing thrumming, as of music above. They stood at an angle of the building. Up, along the side nearest them, mounted an iron stairway. At its top was an upright, illuminated218 parallelogram. Father Rogan had stopped, and stood, musing219.
"I will say this much," he remarked, thoughtfully: "I believe you to be a better man than you think yourself to be, and a better man than I thought some hours ago. But do not take this," he added, with a smile, "as much praise. I promised you a possible deliverance from an unhappy perplexity. I will have to modify that promise. I can only remove the mystery that enhanced that perplexity. Your deliverance depends upon yourself. Come."
He led his companion up the stairway. Halfway220 up, Lorison caught him by the sleeve. "Remember," he gasped221, "I love that woman."
"You desired to know.
"I—Go on."
The priest reached the landing at the top of the stairway. Lorison, behind him, saw that the illuminated space was the glass upper half of a door opening into the lighted room. The rhythmic222 music increased as they neared it; the stairs shook with the mellow223 vibrations224.
Lorison stopped breathing when he set foot upon the highest step, for the priest stood aside, and motioned him to look through the glass of the door.
His eye, accustomed to the darkness, met first a blinding glare, and then he made out the faces and forms of many people, amid an extravagant225 display of splendid robings—billowy laces, brilliant-hued finery, ribbons, silks and misty226 drapery. And then he caught the meaning of that jarring hum, and he saw the tired, pale, happy face of his wife, bending, as were a score of others, over her sewing machine—toiling227, toiling. Here was the folly she pursued, and the end of his quest.
But not his deliverance, though even then remorse86 struck him. His shamed soul fluttered once more before it retired228 to make room for the other and better one. For, to temper his thrill of joy, the shine of the satin and the glimmer229 of ornaments230 recalled the disturbing figure of the bespangled Amazon, and the base duplicate histories lit by the glare of footlights and stolen diamonds. It is past the wisdom of him who only sets the scenes, either to praise or blame the man. But this time his love overcame his scruples231. He took a quick step, and reached out his hand for the doorknob. Father Rogan was quicker to arrest it and draw him back.
"You use my trust in you queerly," said the priest sternly. "What are you about to do?"
"I am going to my wife," said Lorison. "Let me pass."
"Listen," said the priest, holding him firmly by the arm. "I am about to put you in possession of a piece of knowledge of which, thus far, you have scarcely proved deserving. I do not think you ever will; but I will not dwell upon that. You see in that room the woman you married, working for a frugal232 living for herself, and a generous comfort for an idolized brother. This building belongs to the chief costumer of the city. For months the advance orders for the coming Mardi Gras festivals have kept the work going day and night. I myself secured employment here for Norah. She toils233 here each night from nine o'clock until daylight, and, besides, carries home with her some of the finer costumes, requiring more delicate needlework, and works there part of the day. Somehow, you two have remained strangely ignorant of each other's lives. Are you convinced now that your wife is not walking the streets?"
"Let me go to her," cried Lorison, again struggling, "and beg her forgiveness!'
"Sir," said the priest, "do you owe me nothing? Be quiet. It seems so often that Heaven lets fall its choicest gifts into hands that must be taught to hold them. Listen again. You forgot that repentant234 sin must not compromise, but look up, for redemption, to the purest and best. You went to her with the fine-spun sophistry235 that peace could be found in a mutual236 guilt76; and she, fearful of losing what her heart so craved237, thought it worth the price to buy it with a desperate, pure, beautiful lie. I have known her since the day she was born; she is as innocent and unsullied in life and deed as a holy saint. In that lowly street where she dwells she first saw the light, and she has lived there ever since, spending her days in generous self-sacrifice for others. Och, ye spalpeen!" continued Father Rogan, raising his finger in kindly238 anger at Lorison. "What for, I wonder, could she be after making a fool of hersilf, and shamin' her swate soul with lies, for the like of you!"
"Sir," said Lorison, trembling, "say what you please of me. Doubt it as you must, I will yet prove my gratitude239 to you, and my devotion to her. But let me speak to her once now, let me kneel for just one moment at her feet, and—"
"Tut, tut!" said the priest. "How many acts of a love drama do you think an old bookworm like me capable of witnessing? Besides, what kind of figures do we cut, spying upon the mysteries of midnight millinery! Go to meet your wife to-morrow, as she ordered you, and obey her thereafter, and maybe some time I shall get forgiveness for the part I have played in this night's work. Off wid yez down the shtairs, now! 'Tis late, and an ould man like me should be takin' his rest."
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收听单词发音
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1
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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3
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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6
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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7
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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8
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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9
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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10
skulker
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| n.偷偷隐躲起来的人，偷懒的人 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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denizen
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| n.居民，外籍居民 | |
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13
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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14
subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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15
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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16
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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17
grooves
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| n.沟( groove的名词复数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏v.沟( groove的第三人称单数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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18
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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19
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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20
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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21
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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22
fissure
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| n.裂缝；裂伤 | |
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23
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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24
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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25
filigree
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| n.金银丝做的工艺品；v.用金银细丝饰品装饰；用华而不实的饰品装饰；adj.金银细丝工艺的 | |
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26
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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27
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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28
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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29
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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30
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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31
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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32
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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33
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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34
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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35
attests
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| v.证明( attest的第三人称单数 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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36
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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37
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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38
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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39
avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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40
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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41
debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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42
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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43
entices
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的第三人称单数 ) | |
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44
beguiles
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| v.欺骗( beguile的第三人称单数 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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45
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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46
panoramic
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| adj. 全景的 | |
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47
vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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48
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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49
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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50
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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51
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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52
expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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53
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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54
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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55
dally
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| v.荒废(时日)，调情 | |
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56
innuendo
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| n.暗指，讽刺 | |
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57
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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58
cavorting
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| v.跳跃( cavort的现在分词 ) | |
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59
stonily
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| 石头地，冷酷地 | |
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60
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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61
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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62
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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63
vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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64
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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65
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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66
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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68
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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69
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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70
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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71
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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72
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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73
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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74
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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75
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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76
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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77
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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78
abdication
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| n.辞职；退位 | |
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79
pruned
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| v.修剪（树木等）( prune的过去式和过去分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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80
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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81
purloined
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| v.偷窃( purloin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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83
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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84
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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85
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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86
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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87
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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88
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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89
exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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90
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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91
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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92
brazenness
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| 厚颜无耻 | |
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93
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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94
licenses
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| n.执照( license的名词复数 )v.批准，许可，颁发执照( license的第三人称单数 ) | |
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95
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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96
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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97
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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98
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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99
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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100
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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101
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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102
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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103
emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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104
subjugated
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| v.征服，降伏( subjugate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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106
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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107
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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108
rote
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| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
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109
addenda
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| n.附录，附加物；附加物( addendum的名词复数 )；补遗；附录；（齿轮的）齿顶（高） | |
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110
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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111
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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112
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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113
vacuously
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| adv.无意义地，茫然若失地，无所事事地 | |
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114
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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115
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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116
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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117
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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118
axis
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| n.轴，轴线，中心线；坐标轴，基准线 | |
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119
apex
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| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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120
buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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121
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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122
retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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123
dearth
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| n.缺乏，粮食不足，饥谨 | |
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124
valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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125
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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126
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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127
complaisant
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| adj.顺从的，讨好的 | |
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128
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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129
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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130
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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131
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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132
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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133
harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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134
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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135
effulgent
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| adj.光辉的；灿烂的 | |
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136
vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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137
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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138
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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139
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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140
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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141
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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142
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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143
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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144
larceny
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| n.盗窃（罪） | |
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145
troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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146
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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147
pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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148
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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149
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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150
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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151
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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152
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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153
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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154
accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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155
fishy
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| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
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156
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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157
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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158
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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159
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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160
technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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161
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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162
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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163
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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164
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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165
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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166
reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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167
sapient
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| adj.有见识的，有智慧的 | |
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168
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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169
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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170
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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172
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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173
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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174
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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175
pliable
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| adj.易受影响的；易弯的；柔顺的，易驾驭的 | |
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176
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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177
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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178
astringent
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| adj.止血的，收缩的，涩的；n.收缩剂，止血剂 | |
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179
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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180
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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181
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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182
calamitous
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| adj.灾难的，悲惨的；多灾多难；惨重 | |
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183
culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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185
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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186
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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187
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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188
marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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189
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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190
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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191
contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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192
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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193
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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194
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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195
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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196
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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197
credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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198
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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199
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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200
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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201
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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202
segregated
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| 分开的； 被隔离的 | |
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203
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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204
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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205
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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207
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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208
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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209
multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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210
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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211
pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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212
garrulity
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| n.饶舌，多嘴 | |
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213
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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214
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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215
suffocatingly
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| 令人窒息地 | |
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216
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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217
apertures
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| n.孔( aperture的名词复数 )；隙缝；（照相机的）光圈；孔径 | |
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218
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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219
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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220
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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221
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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230
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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231
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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232
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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toils
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| 网 | |
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repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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