Sings at the height where morning springs,
What though his voice be lost in the light?
The light comes dropping from his wings.
Mount, my soul, and sing at the height
Of thy clear flight in the light and the air,
Heard or unheard in the night, in the light,
Sing there! Sing there!
—DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT.
Elmbrook felt keenly disappointed that the red threshing-machine did not pass through the village on its return journey. Though no one guessed it, Dr. Allen was the most deeply disappointed of all. Indeed, such was the effect upon him, that he packed his suitcase the next day, Davy Munn hung his mother's sunbonnet upon the top of the stable, and the doctor boarded the train at the back lane and went to Toronto.
Elmbrook literally1 sat up nights, speculating as to the possible reasons for his sudden departure. Mrs. Munn hadn't the faintest idea. She even wasn't sure of his destination, had forgotten whether he took many clothes or not, and was perfectly2 at sea in regard to his possible return. Her son was more explicit3, if more imaginative. He bet that the doctor had gone to see the swell4 young lady that came in the threshing-mill; he was quite sure he would get drunk and show people a few things when he came back, for he was a very wild and fierce young man, and nobody in the place, except Mr. Munn, knew just what awful things he could do.
Fortunately, people paid no heed5 to Davy, and when the doctor returned the following day, looking his usual self, no one suspected him of riotous6 conduct. Mrs. Munn kept her own counsel, of course, but she wondered secretly what had happened to make him so quiet, and why he did not run up the stairs three steps at a time, whistling loudly, as he used to do.
And yet, according to his own view, there was really no reason why Gilbert should have been less happy. Everything had turned out just as he had wanted. First, Rosalie had forgiven him—that was just like Rosalie, he reflected fondly—and, moreover, had promised—yes, promised faithfully this time—that if he would come down to her New Year's party she would that day announce their engagement. There was another provision attached, however; he must, yes, must, come to the city in the spring; no, not a month later. There was no use in his thinking she would live anywhere else, because she simply would die; and if he wanted to kill her, why, she would just marry Guy Blackburn, and go motoring over a precipice8. Surely, when he saw that she was giving up so much for his sake, he might make a little sacrifice for her. And Gilbert had declared, with a rush of gratitude9, that he would do anything she asked.
So there was surely no good reason for his apparent lack of spirits. There was every prospect10 of his being successful in Toronto, and Harwood, his old college chum, had assured him there would be a fine opening in the spring. Nevertheless, Gilbert Allen was not as glad at heart as might have been expected. For Rosalie had been right in her judgment11; he was changed. Several influences had been at work to make a new man of him. Hitherto his life had been unconsciously selfish. It had been all getting, and no giving. That had seemed inevitable12 in his college days; but when they were over, self-interest had still remained the strongest force. To attain13, to gain what he desired most for himself, had brought him to this country practice, and for a while he was in danger of quenching14 finally the generous impulses that were a part of his nature. But until Gilbert Allen had almost reached man's estate there had been a good mother in his home, one who had never failed, day and night, to lay her boy's highest welfare before her God. So it was impossible that he should go very far astray, and now, all unknowing, he was turning into the path where that mother had always desired he should walk. He had set himself the task of reaching the shining mark of success, all for his own ends; but he found the road to it so absorbing, the daily duty demanding so strenuously15 the obliteration16 of self, that, little by little, he was losing sight of his own interests and living primarily for the people that needed his help. He smiled at himself in surprise one day, when, after an unusually busy fortnight, he found that he had forgotten to keep any account of the money owing him. That was not the Gilbert Allen who had sat down, in the first days of his career as a physician, to calculate carefully just how much each mile would bring. He found it was hard for a true physician to be selfish.
And as he went about his task of relieving pain, day by day, unconsciously he was trying to live up to the high ideal that Elmbrook had placed for him.
"Give a dog a bad name and you can be hanging him," quoted old Hughie Cameron one evening when the doctor had joined the company on the milkstand, and the talk was more than usually profound. "That will be a true saying, indeed. But, hoots17! toots! it will be working the other way, whatever. Give him a good name, now, and——"
"And he'll git up on his hind18 legs and walk like a man," said Spectacle John Cross, much to Uncle Hughie's disgust.
Dr. Allen had merely laughed, and forgotten the remark soon after. Nevertheless, the underlying19 truth was working out in his own life. He was being made a better man because he had been given a fine name and reputation. He had no petty conceit20 to be fed by his patients' adulation. It brought him only a saving sense of his own shortcomings and an honest desire to be more worthy21. And there had been still another influence at work, one of which he was entirely22 unconscious—the quiet life of noble self-sacrifice lived by the girl on the other side of Treasure Valley was a constant source of reproach to him, though he recognized it not.
So, being the man he was, Gilbert could not be happy in view of what he had promised to do. Even Rosalie's smile was scarcely compensation for the pang23 he felt when he reflected that the splendid Christmas present he had in store for the man who had given him his chance in life must be used for selfish ends, and Martin must wait. That was the sting; Martin was always waiting, and when would the waiting end?
But he soon lost sight of the future, its joys, as well as its pangs24, in the imperative25 call of the present. When the winter set in he discovered that, hitherto, his work had been but child's play. The high ridge26 of Elmbrook offered a splendid battle-ground for all the opposing winds. Here they met in furious combat, filling the air with the white dust of battle, and piling up their ramparts of snow until roads and fields and fences were blotted27 out, and the whole earth lay one dazzling waste.
With the opening of winter came an epidemic28 of grip [Transcriber's note: grippe?], and other seasonable maladies. The orphans29 went sliding on the pond before the ice was as thick as window-glass, and broke through and got severe colds; Mrs. McKitterick fell ill of pneumonia31, and all the children up among the stormy hills of Glenoro took the measles32. So the young doctor learned all that it meant to be a country physician during an Ontario winter. An early December storm made some of the roads impassable, and he often had to leave Speed, or the new horse he had lately bought, at some wayside farmhouse33 while he made the rest of the journey on snowshoes. Often he drove home in the gray winter dawn staggering for want of sleep, only to change his horse and start off in another direction. But he never shirked. His troubled conscience drove him to a vigorous fulfilment of the duty at hand. He had a vague notion that in this way he was atoning34 for the neglect of the greater obligation.
His capacity for toil35 won the admiration36 of the hard-working people among whom he lived. Often, as they watched his lonely cutter moving down the road, like a little ship in a stormy sea, now rising high on a snowy billow, now almost disappearing in the hollow, as he fought his way against the bitter blast to relieve some one's pain, they unanimously voted the doctor a man.
And the cures he worked! They talked them over around the kitchen fire at night, never wearying of the theme. There was Mrs. McKitterick—everybody knew about her, of course. And there was Arabella Winters, who was in bed and like to die, one day, and the doctor had her sitting up and going around the next. And as for Jake Sawyer's orphans—well, there was no knowing how often he had saved their lives. Yes, the doctor certainly was a caution.
As he worked the days flew past, and Rosalie's New Year's celebration, which was to bring him such happiness, was fast approaching. He had all the arrangements made for his holidays several weeks before. Harwood was coming to take his work for a week, and everything promised to turn out exactly as he had hoped.
On the last night of December he drove down the Lake Simcoe road to pay a farewell visit to Mrs. McKitterick. Harwood had arrived the day before, and the next morning Gilbert was to take the early train for Toronto. Lauchie had promised to wait at the back lane for him, and Davy had shoveled37 a path down to the railroad track.
Gilbert wore his first-prize mittens38 under his fur gauntlets, and Mrs. McKitterick praised him for the wonderful care he was taking of them. She was better, quite herself again, but she warned him to be back in less than a week, for how could she get on without him? He had not the heart to tell her that he would not likely be with her much longer. He had to wait for a cup of tea, and by the time he had made another call it was getting late.
As he was hurrying homeward he bethought himself of a short road to the village, a winter highway, that went up the ravine, past the Drowned Lands, following the old abandoned corduroy track. It had been made by Sandy McQuarry's teams hauling logs up to the mill, and being sheltered, was comparatively free from drifts. The doctor turned into it, and passed into the breathless silence of the cedar39 swamp. His horse's bells sounded startlingly clear in the tense Stillness. To his right lay the cold, drear stretches of the Drowned Lands; the gaunt tree-trunks were but dimly discernible against the gray landscape, and looked more ghostly than ever, standing40 there, stark41 and silent, like an army of the dead. Not a light could be seen, nor a sign of human habitation. Above stretched the illimitable blue of heaven, steely cold, like the frozen earth, and spangled with glittering stars. For several nights Gilbert had had very little sleep, and as he moved on through the unbroken silence his head drooped42 forward on his breast, the lines hung loosely in his limp hand, and he swayed from side to side like a drunken man. Speed trotted43 steadily44 onward45, picking her way carefully, like the wise little animal she was. She seemed the only living thing in all the ghostly stillness.
Suddenly the horse stopped, and her sleepy driver lurched forward and almost fell over the dashboard. He sat bolt upright and stared stupidly about him. Then he guessed that something was probably wrong with the harness. Speed was a dainty little animal, and always refused to move when her attire46 was not in perfect order. She had once cleverly forestalled47 what might have been a serious accident, by standing stock-still when a strap48 gave way. Gilbert stumbled out and went around to her head. Sure enough, a buckle49 had broken. He patted the little mare50 affectionately.
"Ah, Speed, you're a finicky old girl," he grumbled51. "If you were as dead for want of sleep as I am you wouldn't know whether you had any harness or not."
Speed rubbed him ingratiatingly with her nose as he strove, with numb52 fingers, to repair the damage. The bells were still, and the silence of the winter night was oppressive. The dry rustle54 of some dead leaves that still clung forlornly to a ghostly beech55 by the wayside sounded loud and startling. All at once the doctor was conscious of another sound, one that appealed to his professional ear—the sound of a smothered56, strangling cough. He looked about him wonderingly, and found that he had stopped just in front of the old shanty57 where John McIntyre lived. He had seen the man only once or twice since the mill closed, though he often heard the eldest58 orphan30 talk about him. But Tim had been confined to the house for the past week, the result of his premature59 skate on the pond, and the village had heard nothing of the watchman for some time.
Gilbert stood a moment, doubtful as to what he should do. The coughing began again, with a sound in it, this time, that told the physician he must hesitate no longer. He drew his horse up to the old tumbled-down bars, tied and blanketed her, and taking his satchel60, plunged61 through the deep snow to the shanty. He drew off his fur gauntlet and knocked on the shaky door, but the moment he had done so he recognized the futility63 of the act. He tried the latch64, it lifted, and he stepped in. The place was in utter darkness, and bitingly cold, a chill dampness that struck the heart. The man's strangled breathing came from a corner of the room. The doctor spoke65, but there was no answer. He hastily struck a match and looked around. The little flickering66 light showed a rickety table, an old stove red with rust53, and a dark object in a far corner. It showed, also, a lantern on the floor. Gilbert lit it, and going to the corner, bent67 over the sick man. John McIntyre lay stretched on a low straw bed, covered with a ragged68 quilt and a heap of nondescript clothing. His breath was coming in choking gasps69, and he gazed up at his visitor with staring, but unseeing, eyes. The doctor felt his burning forehead and his leaping pulse, and uttered a sharp exclamation70. John McIntyre was sick, so sick that relief must come speedily or it would not come at all.
Gilbert was wide awake now. The weary man was lost in the alert physician. He forced some medicine down the man's throat, found some kindling-wood in the shed, and soon had a blazing fire and a boiling kettle. Then he flung aside his cap and coat and went rummaging71 in the meager72 cupboard; he must have something—anything—for poultices. He gave a relieved whistle as he stumbled upon a can of linseed meal, and reflected, with some amusement, upon how approvingly Mrs. Winters would have regarded the homely73 treatment. When he had adjusted the hot poultice he ran out and led his shivering horse around into the shelter of the old shed behind the house. Then he hurried back to John McIntyre's bedside and took up his night's work. A hard battle he knew it would be, with, as yet, almost even chances for life and death. He went into the struggle eagerly, with not only the strong desire to relieve pain and save life, which is part of the true physician, but with his fighting instinct keenly aroused. The battle was on; there was only his strength and skill against the dread74 specter, and he was determined75 to win.
All night long he hung over his patient, watchful76, careful, seizing every smallest vantage ground, swiftly changing his tactics when he sighted defeat ahead. Once or twice he sank into the single chair the place possessed77 and snatched a few minutes' sleep; but when the instant came to administer medicine or change the poultices, he was wide awake again. So completely was he absorbed in his task that he lost all consciousness of time and place, until he noticed a sickly appearance in the lantern's light, and glancing at the little frosted window-pane, he saw the ghosts of the Drowned Lands standing out plainly against the dawn. Gilbert drew a deep breath. The night had ended, and with it the struggle. The doctor bent over his patient, pale and worn-looking, but his eyes aglow78 with the light of conquest. For he had won the battle. John McIntyre lay there, spent and white, but he was saved.
When he had made his patient as comfortable as possible with his inadequate79 means, Gilbert prepared to go home. He left reluctantly, but he promised himself he would send Harwood back immediately. He hurried out to the cutter, and sent Speed spinning up the road toward the village. As he faced the brightening horizon it came to him with a leap of his heart that it was New Year's Day! He would barely have time to catch the train! He drove swiftly into his own yard and dashed in at the kitchen door.
"Is Dr. Harwood up?" he demanded, coming suddenly upon Mrs. Munn, and paralyzing her preparations for breakfast.
Had he not been in such a hurry he would have known it was too much to expect his silent housekeeper80 to vouchsafe81, all at once, the amount of information required to answer that question.
"Dear! dear!" she cried, in consternation82, standing with the dripping porridge-stick held over the hot stove. "I dunno. There's a letter on your desk," she added reluctantly.
Gilbert darted83 into his office and tore open the note. Harwood had been called out in the night to an urgent case, fifteen miles away, and would not be back till the afternoon.
The young doctor walked slowly to the frosty window and looked out upon the white lawn, the paper crushed in his hand. He stood there, motionless, for fully7 a minute, and when he turned away his face was very stern. He walked upstairs and knocked peremptorily84 on the door of Davy's room.
The high, falsetto squeak85 of a gramophone was coming gaily86 through the portal, and without waiting for an answer Gilbert impatiently put his head through the doorway87. Since the lawnmower had gone to its well-earned rest Mr. Munn lived only for this other instrument, the sound of whose music he found similar to that of his lost treasure.
He was sitting up in bed now, shrouded88 in blankets, a smile of content illuminating89 his face, while the buzzing little machine on the table at his side was grinding out a Sousa march.
The stern look on the doctor's face startled the young man. He stared in perturbation.
"Is anybody dead?" he whispered.
"Jump up quick," said the doctor sharply, "and run down and feed Speed right away; I want her again in a few minutes, do you understand? Then go down to the track when Lauchie stops, and give him a telegram I want sent on. Tell him I'm not going to Toronto."
On the third day of the new year, when John McIntyre was quite out of danger, Gilbert went over to Mrs. Winters' to ask if she could do something to make the man's surroundings more comfortable. This was just the opportunity for which the village manager had been longing90 ever since the watchman had taken up his residence at the Drowned Lands. She organized a housecleaning brigade, and every woman in the place joined the ranks. Old Hughie Cameron drove them down the ravine in Sandy McQuarry's big sleigh, and they descended91 upon John McIntyre's establishment, and soaked and washed and scrubbed until there seemed no small danger of the little shanty's joining the Drowned Lands under a deluge92 of soapy water. They brought all sorts of comforts, too. Miss Arabella donated her bedroom rug with the purple robins93. Miss McQuarry brought bedclothes, Mrs. Winters a feather mattress94, and the Longs cooking utensils95; and they made beef-tea and chicken broth96 and jellies, until, from fearing that his patient might die of neglect, the doctor changed to apprehensions97 lest he be killed with over-attention.
When the rush and excitement of it was all over Gilbert felt as though he had fallen from some great height, and was not yet certain how badly he was hurt. That he had grievously offended Rosalie this time he was assured. She would listen to no explanations. He might have come if he had wanted, she declared; and when he humbly98 asked if he might not come yet, he was answered by a newspaper with a paragraph in the society column marked. Miss Rosalie Lane, it stated, was visiting friends in New York.
Harwood went back to the city, and, left alone, Gilbert was too busy to speculate much upon his wrongs. He put them behind him manfully, his indignation at the unfairness of Rosalie's treatment helping99 him to bear them. But he wrote to her again, very humbly, as usual, and repeated his promise to come to the city in the spring. She condescended100 to answer, but her brief note was all about the fun she was having, and she made no allusion101 to his future plans. And with this he was forced to be content.
He was passing John McIntyre's shanty one dazzling mid-January day, and, tying his horse, ran in to see how he was faring. He found his patient, dressed in one of his own warm bathrobes—a present from Mrs. Munn—sitting in a cushioned rocking-chair by the fire. The place was exquisitely102 clean and tidy, and there was a subtle touch here and there—a blooming geranium in the window, a smoothness of the feather bed—that showed the recent mark of a woman's hand. Seated in the most comfortable chair, behind the stove, was the eldest Sawyer orphan, happily devouring103 the remains104 of a boiled chicken, and talking fast and furiously. John McIntyre was pale and haggard, as usual, but his air of fierce reserve had changed to a dreary105 toleration of the companionship of his fellow-mortals. He was still reticent106 and silent, but in a helpless, broken-hearted way.
Since his recovery the young doctor felt constrained107 in his presence. He could not forget their first interview; so he confined his remarks and questions to strictly108 professional matters, and made his visits as short as possible.
"And how are you feeling to-day?" he asked cheerily, as he removed his coat, and stood warming his hands by the shining stove.
"Oh, better—quite better." It was John McIntyre's unfailing answer. The doctor slipped his fingers over his pulse, and nodded in a satisfied way.
"I don't know that it's very wise of you to be out of bed yet, though," he said. "You must not sit up too long."
He placed a bottle on the table, gave a few instructions concerning diet, and then turned to go. John McIntyre had been regarding him as though he wanted to speak.
"Sit down a moment, I would like to say something," he said suddenly.
Gilbert took a chair opposite, and looked at him inquiringly.
"They were telling me yesterday how you saved my life that night you found me here," he began slowly.
"Oh, never mind that. It's nothing. Any doctor would have done the same."
"I am not thanking you for it," said John McIntyre, in his old hard voice. "I would much rather you had left me alone. But you did what you thought best, and you have been very kind since." He paused a moment, then went on slowly: "I once said something to you, it is likely you have not forgotten. I would like to take it back. I know now I must have been mistaken."
Dr. Gilbert Allen arose. The room felt stifling109. "Will you tell me exactly what you meant? Who was the friend you mentioned?" he asked in a low tone.
The man shook his head. "No; what is the use?" he asked wearily. "He is dead and gone, long ago. I was mistaken, that was all."
Gilbert went away puzzled. The "friend" was dead? Then the man had not meant Martin, after all. It was a case of conscience making a coward of him, he reflected. And so the two parted, all unconscious of how near each had come to giving an uplift to the other's life.
Gilbert drove up the glittering road, following the fairy windings111 and turnings of the valley. Down in the shadows the bare trees were vivid blue, up on the heights the snow was a blinding silver. He was meditating112 deeply on John McIntyre's words. They had hurt him more than his angry accusation113 that evening in the mill. How he hated himself! Why not plunge62 in and do the right thing now, whether Martin needed it or not, and then, after that, let the future bring what it would?
A woman's figure appeared on the road ahead of him, carrying a basket, and explaining by her presence the immaculate state of John McIntyre's home. Gilbert recognized the shimmer114 of Elsie Cameron's deep gold hair with renewed feelings of compunction. If he had only had the calm courage to walk the path of duty as this girl was doing! He touched his horse and drew up beside her. The keen air had given her cheeks a deeper tint115, her hair was glorious in the sunlight, and her eyes were brilliant.
She thanked him smilingly as he helped her into the cutter. He could not help remembering the last time they had ridden together, and the disastrous116 consequences.
They spun117 along the smooth road, and just as they were rounding a turn in the winding110 valley a heavy sleigh, with a load of wood, came out of the forest and moved slowly along in the track ahead. Gilbert uttered an exclamation of impatience118. "Now we shall have to crawl," he said. "Sandy might have let us pass."
"Perhaps he didn't see us. He looks preoccupied119."
"Likely he's concocting120 some scheme for sending the minister to Muskoky for the rest of the winter."
"I really believe he'll drive him away from here some day. No one knows how much Sandy's conduct has made poor Mr. Scott suffer."
"Well, the end is near, according to Silas Long's predictions. He prophesies121 sure retribution, and it's not far off now, he says. Such a learned astronomer122 ought to know. Hello! what's the matter?"
The sleigh ahead had stopped, and its driver was haranguing123 some obstacle in his pathway. The two in the cutter leaned out and gazed forward inquiringly.
Right in the middle of the highway, facing Sandy McQuarry's team, stood the schoolmistress. She had a basket on her arm, and was bound for John McIntyre's place with a mold of jelly, but she was really bent on finding out if that eldest orphan-imp had been spending the day with that dreadful old man instead of coming to school.
The ravine road was narrow, and on either side the deep, untrodden snow made it impossible for a sleigh to turn out without risking an upset. It was an unwritten law of the winter highway that pedestrians124 must give the right of way to vehicles, particularly those that bore loads. But the Duke of Wellington was subject to no law she did not wish to obey. To turn off the road meant plunging125 into the deep snow, and that she had not the smallest intention of doing.
"Ye'll hae to turn oot!" shouted Sandy McQuarry peremptorily.
"Do you think I'm going to flounder through that snow to my waist?" demanded the Duke indignantly.
"Move aside and let me pass!"
"Ah canna move oot, wumman!" he cried, with truth. "Ma load'll upset!"
"What are you going to do about it, then?" Sandy McQuarry glared. "Ah'm goin' to drive on," he declared grimly.
"Indeed!" Miss Weir126 placed her basket exactly in the middle of the road, carefully adjusted her shawl over it, and, with perfect deliberation, sat down upon it.
"Hoh!" Sandy McQuarry grunted127 disdainfully. He could soon scare even the Duke of Wellington out of such an untenable position. "Ma conscience, but ye'll no sit there lang!" he muttered. He urged his team forward until the nose of one of his grays was right over her head. But he had not calculated on the immovability of the Iron Duke. She did not stir a muscle, but sat, with a calm, meditative128 face, gazing across the valley. The grays tossed their heads, puzzled and indignant, and then stopped.
Sandy McQuarry was red with rage.
"D'ye want me to run over ye, ye thrawn piece o' humanity, ye?" he shouted.
The Duke did not appear to hear him. He rose to his feet, whip in hand.
"Jemima Weir!" he thundered, "will ye, or will ye no step off that road and let me drive on?"
"I will no!" answered the Duke, with unkind emphasis.
The man raised his whip over his horses' backs and then paused. Plainly she intended to be slain129 rather than yield, and though murder was in Sandy's heart he hesitated to commit it. He glanced about him with a movement of impotent rage. Never before had he been balked130 in his will by man, nor had he ever met the woman who had dared to cross him. And here he was, held up in his own particular saw-log road by one of the despised sex! He remembered, in choking wrath131, that he was a pillar of the Glenoro church, that before him was the schoolmistress, and behind the doctor and old Hughie Cameron's niece, and he dared not give adequate expression to the rage with which he was being consumed.
In a voice inarticulate with anger he opened a parley132. He declared that he would have the law, that he would publish her high-handed act from one end of the county of Simcoe to the other, that he would get himself elected for trustee and drive her out of the section. He blustered133, he threatened, he scolded, he argued. And through it all the obstacle sat on her basket, in the middle of the highway, not deigning134 him even a glance. But as the maddened man foamed135 on, there arose once to the surface the lurking136 twinkle in the Duke's gray eyes. For there was no doubt Sandy was weakening. He had even stooped to reason with her now.
The Duke caught the first symptom of yielding, but was too wise to make answer.
"Yon's the doctor back there," he cried, with a great show of righteous concern, "he'll mebby be in a hurry."
There was no sign of impatience from the two, choking down their laughter, in the cutter behind; and though she could not see them, well the Duke knew they were enjoying themselves. Nevertheless, she condescended to answer.
"You'd better not keep him waiting, then," she advised.
The man darted one more glance around, the glance of an imprisoned138 lion which suddenly realizes its position. Slowly, his brows erect139, his face dark, he descended from the sleigh and walked around to her side. He stood for a moment regarding her, with a dawning expression of something like respect struggling with the gleam of his fierce eyes.
"If Ah tramp ye a path 'round the sleigh will ye walk in it?" he asked, his voice tremulous with wrath.
The Duke weighed the proposition with great deliberation. She would have died there under the horses' feet rather than show the slightest interest in it. "Well," she admitted indifferently, "I can't say. If I don't get my skirts snowy, I might. You tramp the road, and then I'll see."
With smothered imprecations, Sandy plunged into the snow.
Dr. Allen, quenching his unseemly mirth, sprang from the cutter and came to his aid. There was something to arouse pity in the downfall of the man of strength. Neither by word nor sign did Sandy recognize either his or Elsie Cameron's presence. The atmosphere was too highly charged to admit of ordinary courtesies. When the two men had trampled140 a wide pathway, and made it sufficiently141 smooth and firm, the Duke of Wellington condescended to march out of her citadel142. There was no smallest sign of haste in her movements; she stood and eyed the track critically, as if doubtful as to whether she would use it, after all. Her hesitation143 proved the last straw to her enemy's endurance. With an inarticulate cry of rage Sandy McQuarry sprang toward her. The Duke was tall and stately, and of no light weight, but he caught her up as if she had been a child, and with a few mighty144 strides bore her along the pathway. Reaching the road, he planted her in the middle of it with a violent thud.
"The Lord Almighty145 peety the man that gets a wumman like you!" he exclaimed with vehement146 solemnity. He strode back to his sleigh, leaped upon his load, and lashed147 his horses into a gallop148.
The Duke was perfectly calm. She bowed in her stateliest fashion to Elsie and the doctor, but the twinkle in her eye answered the laughter in the girl's. Then, arranging her basket more carefully on her arm, she passed on her way as if nothing had happened.
Gilbert sprang into his cutter, and the two witnesses of poor Sandy's Waterloo followed his tumultuous retreat up the valley. They were young and light-hearted, and what wonder if one put aside her gravity and the other his troubles, and both laughed all the way to the village?
It was not until they had gained the main highway, and Sandy had disappeared, that they recovered their composure and could speak of other things.
"And you did not get away for your vacation at New Year's," the girl said. "That was too bad."
"No," said Gilbert, suddenly growing somber149 at the recollection. "Everything conspired150 against me, it seemed. I couldn't get away."
"Uncle Hughie would say that everything had conspired for you. His theory is the happiest one. He would tell you that if you had gone probably some disastrous circumstance would have followed."
"Perhaps he is right," said the young man meditatively151. He could not yet regard his failure to meet Rosalie's demands as anything but a misfortune. And yet, there was that money still in the bank that Martin might have. That was surely a satisfaction.
"Oh, everything seems to me to be guided by the merest chance," he said half bitterly.
The girl shook her head. "I think it seems so only on the surface. There can be no hazard about one's duty. The results are as sure as cause and effect. You know that, Dr. Allen."
"Yes, I know it," said Gilbert as he assisted her to alight at the door. "I am aware of it, I mean, but I don't act upon it."
He looked up at her, standing on the steps above him, and felt again that longing her presence always inspired within him to do something good and great. Why was he such a sham152? John McIntyre's words of praise returned, with their weight of humiliation153, and he drove away in utter self-contempt.
At college, the boys always said that generally Easy Allen, as they called him, was only a very ordinary football player. He ambled154 cheerily about the field, and seemed to enjoy the game so much that he did not bother trying to do anything remarkable155. But let something arouse him to a sense of responsibility, a goal for the other side, a knockdown that stirred his temper, then look out! He would put his head down and pitch himself into the fray156, and then something had to give way, and the boys knew it wouldn't be Easy. To-day, something of that old conquering mood had come over him. He was possessed with a rage against his former dilatory157 self, and a fierce desire to win, to do the clean, square thing, no matter what the consequences. He had done it that New Year's morning, when John McIntyre's life lay in his hand. The call of duty had been imperative then. He had not even considered the possibility of shirking it, and in spite of all the disappointment and sorrow his action had brought, he had never once viewed it with regret. And now, once more, he had his head down, in fierce determination, and cared for nothing but to score and feel himself a man.
He marched straight past a group of patients waiting in his office and sat down at his desk. What a long time since he had written to Martin! He had almost forgotten his address. The letter was short and humble158, and inside it he slipped a check. When he left it at the post-office, half an hour later, he was a poor man, and his prospects159 of starting a city practice in the spring were of the slimmest sort; nevertheless, he walked very straight, and held up his head with an air of pride, as though he owned the whole earth.
But his exultation160 did not last long. The next morning Miss Ella Anne Long handed him a letter; it was in Rosalie's handwriting. He tore it open on the street, not being able to wait till he reached home. It was merely a note, very short and very merry, telling how she had just returned from New York, and in a brief postscript161, crowded in at the bottom, she announced her engagement to Guy Blackburn.
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1
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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3
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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quenching
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| 淬火，熄 | |
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strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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obliteration
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| n.涂去，删除；管腔闭合 | |
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17
hoots
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| 咄，啐 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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26
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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29
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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30
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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32
measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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33
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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34
atoning
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的现在分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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shoveled
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| vt.铲，铲出（shovel的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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mittens
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| 不分指手套 | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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41
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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42
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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44
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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46
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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47
forestalled
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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49
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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50
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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51
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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52
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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54
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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55
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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56
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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57
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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58
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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59
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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60
satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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61
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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62
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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63
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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64
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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65
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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66
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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67
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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68
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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69
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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70
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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71
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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72
meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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73
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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74
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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76
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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77
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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78
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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79
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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80
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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81
vouchsafe
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| v.惠予，准许 | |
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82
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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83
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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84
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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85
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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86
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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87
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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88
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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89
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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90
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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91
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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92
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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93
robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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94
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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95
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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96
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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97
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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98
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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99
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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100
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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101
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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102
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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103
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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104
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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105
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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106
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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107
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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108
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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109
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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110
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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111
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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112
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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113
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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114
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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115
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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116
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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117
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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118
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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119
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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120
concocting
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的现在分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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121
prophesies
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的第三人称单数 ) | |
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122
astronomer
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| n.天文学家 | |
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123
haranguing
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的现在分词 ) | |
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124
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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125
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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weir
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| n.堰堤，拦河坝 | |
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127
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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129
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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130
balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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131
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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132
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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133
blustered
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| v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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134
deigning
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的现在分词 ) | |
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foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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136
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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137
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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138
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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140
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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141
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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142
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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143
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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147
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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148
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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149
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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150
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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152
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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153
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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154
ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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155
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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156
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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157
dilatory
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| adj.迟缓的，不慌不忙的 | |
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158
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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159
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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160
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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161
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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