Later, when the boards he had loosened in anticipation1 of this hour were all removed, they came upon a packet of closely written words hidden in the framework of the bed.
It read as follows:
Whosoever lays hands on this MS. will already be acquainted with my crime. If he would also know its cause and the full story of my hypocrisy3, let him read these lines written, as it were, with my heart’s blood.
I loved Algernon Etheridge; I shall never have a dearer friend. His odd ways, his lank4, possibly ungainly figure crowned by a head of scholarly refinement5, his amiability6 when pleased, his irascibility when crossed, formed a character attractive to me from its very contradictions; and after my wife’s death and before my son Oliver reached a companionable age, it was in my intercourse7 with this man I found my most solid satisfaction.
Yet we often quarrelled. His dogmatism frequently ran counter to my views, and, being myself a man of quick and violent temper, hard words sometimes passed between us, to be forgotten the next minute in a hand-shake, or some other token of mutual8 esteem9. These dissensions — if such they could be called — never took place except in the privacy of his study or mine. We thought too much of each other to display our differences of opinion abroad or even in the presence of Oliver; and however heated our arguments or whatever our topic we invariably parted friends, till one fateful night.
O God! that years of repentance10, self-hatred and secret immolation11 can never undo12 the deed of an infuriated moment. Eternity14 may console, but it can never make me innocent of the blood of my heart’s brother.
We had had our usual wordy disagreement over some petty subject in which he was no nearer wrong nor I any nearer right than we had been many times before; but for some reason I found it harder to pardon him. Perhaps some purely15 physical cause lay back of this; perhaps the nervous irritation16 incident upon a decision then pending17 in regard to Oliver’s future, heightened my feelings and made me less reasonable than usual. The cause does not matter, the result does. For the first time in our long acquaintance, I let Algernon Etheridge leave me, without any attempt at conciliation18.
If only I had halted there! If, at sight of my empty study, I had not conceived the mad notion of waylaying19 him at the bridge for the hand-shake I missed, I might have been a happy man now, and Oliver — But why dwell upon these might-have-beens! What happened was this:
Disturbed in mind, and finding myself alone in the house, Oliver having evidently gone out while we two were disputing, I decided20 to follow out the impulse I have mentioned. Leaving by the rear, I went down the lane to the path which serves as a short cut to the bridge. That I did this unseen by anybody is not so strange when you consider the hour, and how the only person then living in the lane was, in all probability, in her kitchen. It would have been better for me, little as I might have recognised it at the time, had she been where she could have witnessed both my going and coming and faced me with the fact.
John Scoville, in his statement, says that after giving up his search for his little girl, he wandered up the ravine before taking the path back which led him through Dark Hollow. This was false, as well as the story he told of leaving his stick by the chestnut21 tree in the gully at foot of Ostrander Lane. For I was on the spot, and I know the route by which he reached Dark Hollow and also through whose agency the stick came to be there.
Read, and learn with what tricks the devil beguiles22 us men.
I was descending23 this path, heavily shadowed, as you know, by a skirting of closely growing trees and bushes, when just where it dips into the Hollow, I heard the sound of a hasty foot come crashing up through the underbrush from the ravine and cross the path ahead of me. A turn in the path prevented me from seeing the man himself, but as you will perceive and as I perceived later when circumstances recalled it to my mind, I had no need to see him to know who it was or with what intent he took this method of escape from the ravine into the fields leading to the highway. Scoville’s stick spoke24 for him, the stick which I presently tripped over and mechanically picked up, without a thought of the desperate use to which I was destined25 to put it.
Etheridge was coming. I could hear his whistle on Factory Road. There was no mistaking it. It was an unusually shrill26 one and had always been a cause of irritation to me, but at this moment it was more; it roused every antagonistic27 impulse within me. He whistling like a galliard, after a parting which had dissatisfied me to such an extent that I had come all this distance to ask his pardon and see his old smile again! Afterwards, long afterwards, I was able to give another interpretation28 to his show of apparent self~satisfaction, but then I saw nothing but the contrast it offered to my own tender regrets, and my blood began to boil and my temper rise to such a point that recrimination took the place of apology when in another moment we came together in the open space between the end of the bridge and Dark Hollow.
He was in no better mood than myself to encounter insult, and what had been a simple difference between us flamed into a quarrel which reached its culmination29 when he mentioned Oliver’s name with a taunt30, which the boy, for all his obstinate31 clinging to his journalistic idea, did not deserve.
Knowing my own temper, I drew back into the Hollow.
He followed me.
I tried to speak.
He took the word out of my mouth. This may have been with the intent of quelling32 my anger, but the tone was rasping, and noting this and not his words, my hand tightened33 insensibly about the stick which the devil (or John Scoville) had put in my hand. Did he see this, or was he prompted by some old memory of boyish quarrels that he should give utterance34 to that quick, sharp laugh of scorn! I shall never know, but ere the sound had ceased, the stick was whirling over my head — there came a crash and he fell. My friend! My friend!
Next moment the earth seemed too narrow, the heavens too contracted for my misery35. That he was dead — that my blow had killed him, I never doubted for an instant. I knew it, as we know the face of Doom36 when once it has risen upon us. Never, never again would this lump of clay, which a few minutes before had filled the Hollow with shrillest whistling, breathe or think or speak. He was dead, DEAD, DEAD!— And I? What was I?
The name which no man hears unmoved, no amount of repetition makes easy to the tongue or welcome to the ear! . . . the name which I had heard launched in full forensic37 eloquence38 so many times in accusation39 against the wretches40 I had hardly regarded as being in the same human class as myself, rang in my ear as though intoned from the very mouth of hell. I could not escape it. I should never be able to escape it again. Though I was standing41 in a familiar scene — a scene I had known and frequented from childhood, I felt myself as isolated42 from my past and as completely set apart from my fellows as the shipwrecked mariner44 tossed to precarious45 foot~hold on his wave-dashed rock. I forgot that other criminals existed. In that one awful moment I was in my own eyes the only blot46 upon the universe — the sole inhabitant of the new world into which I had plunged47 — the world of crime — the world upon which I had sat in judgment48 before I knew —
What broke the spell? A noise? No, I heard no noise. The sense of some presence near, if not intrusive49? God knows; all I can say is that, drawn50, by some other will than my own, I found my glance travelling up the opposing bluff51 till at its top, framed between the ragged52 wall and towering chimney of Spencer’s Folly53, I saw the presence I had dreaded54, the witness who was to undo me.
It was a woman — a woman with a little child in hand. I did not see her face, for she was just on the point of turning away from the dizzy verge56, but nothing could have been plainer than the silhouette57 which these two made against the flush of that early evening sky. I see it yet in troubled dreams and desperate musings. I shall see it always; for hard upon its view, fear entered my soul, horrible, belittling58 fear, torturing me not with a sense of guilt59 but of its consequences. I had slain60 a man to my hurt, I a judge, just off the Bench; and soon . . . possibly before I should see Oliver again . . . I should be branded from end to end of the town with that name which had made such havoc61 in my mind when I first saw Algernon Etheridge lying stark62 before me.
I longed to cry out — to voice my despair in the spot where my sin had found me out; but my throat had closed, and the blood in my veins63 ceased flowing. As long as I could catch a glimpse of this woman’s fluttering skirt as she retreated through the ruins, I stood there, self-convicted, above the man I had slain, staring up at that blotch64 of shining sky which was as the gate of hell to me. Not till their two figures had disappeared and it was quite clear again did the instinct of self-preservation return, and with it the thought of flight.
But where could I fly? No spot in the wide world was secret enough to conceal65 me now. I was a marked man. Better to stand my ground, and take the consequences, than to act the coward’s part and slink away like those other men of blood I had so often sat in judgment upon.
Had I but followed this impulse! Had I but gone among my fellows, shown them the mark of Cain upon my forehead, and prayed, not for indulgence, but punishment, what days of gnawing66 misery I should have been spared!
But the horror of what lay at my feet drove me from the Hollow and drove me the wrong way. As my steps fell mechanically into the trail down which I had come in innocence67 and kindly68 purpose only a few minutes before, a startling thought shot through my benumbed mind. The woman had shown no haste in her turning! There had been a naturalness in her movement, a dignity and a grace which spoke of ease, not shock. What if she had not seen! What if my deed was as yet unknown! Might I not have time for — for what? I did not stop to think; I just pressed on, saying to myself, “Let Providence69 decide. If I meet any one before I reach my own door, my doom is settled. If I do not —”
And I did not. As I turned into the lane from the ravine I heard a sound far down the slope, but it was too distant to create apprehension70, and I went calmly on, forcing myself into my usual leisurely71 gait, if only to gain some control over my own emotions before coming under Oliver’s eye.
That sound I have never understood. It could not have been Scoville since in the short time which had passed, he could not have fled from the point where I heard him last into the ravine below Ostrander Lane. But if not he, who was it? Or if it was he, and some other hand threw his stick across my path, whose was this hand and why have we never heard anything about it? It is a question which sometimes floats through my mind, but I did not give it a thought then. I was within sight of home and Oliver’s possible presence; and all other dread55 was as nothing in comparison to what I felt at the prospect72 of meeting my boy’s eye. My boy’s eye! my greatest dread then, and my greatest dread still! In my terror of it I walked as to my doom.
The house which I had left empty, I found empty; Oliver had not yet returned. The absolute stillness of the rooms seemed appalling73. Instinctively74, I looked up at the clock. It had stopped. Not at the minute — I do not say it was at the minute — but near, very near the time when from an innocent man I became a guilty one. Appalled75 at the discovery, I fled to the front. Opening the door, I looked out. Not a creature in sight, and not a sound to be heard. The road was as lonely and seemingly as forsaken76 as the house. Had time stopped here too? Were the world and its interests at a pause in horror of my deed? For a moment I believed it; then more natural sensations intervened and, rejoicing at this lack of disturbance77 where disturbance meant discovery, I stepped inside again and went and sat down in my own room.
My own room! Was it mine any longer? Its walls looked strange; the petty objects of my daily handling, unfamiliar78. The change in myself infected everything I saw. I might have been in another man’s house for all connection these things seemed to have with me or my life. Like one set apart on an unapproachable shore, I stretched hands in vain towards all that I had known and all that had been of value to me.
But as the minutes passed, as the hands of the clock I had hastily rewound moved slowly round the dial, I began to lose this feeling. Hope which I thought quite dead slowly revived. Nothing had happened, and perhaps nothing would. Men had been killed before, and the slayer79 passed unrecognised. Why might it not be so in my case? If the woman continued to remain silent; if for any reason she had not witnessed the blow or the striker, who else was there to connect me with an assault committed a quarter of a mile away? No one knew of the quarrel; and if they did, who could be so daring as to associate one of my name with an action so brutal81? A judge slay80 his friend! It would take evidence of a very marked character to make even my political enemies believe that.
As the twilight82 deepened I rose from my seat and lit the gas. I must not be found skulking83 in the dark. Then I began to count the ticks measuring off the hour. If thirty minutes more passed without a rush from without, I might hope. If twenty?— if ten?— then it was five! then it was — Ah, at last! The gate had clanged to. They were coming. I could hear steps — voices — a loud ring at the bell. Laying down the pen I had taken, up mechanically, I moved slowly towards the front. Should I light the hall gas as I went by? It was a natural action, and, being natural, would show unconcern. But I feared the betrayal which my ashy face and trembling hands might make. Agitation84 after the news was to be expected, but not before! So I left the hall dark when I opened the door.
And thus decided my future.
For in the faces of the small crowd which blocked the doorway85, I detected nothing but commiseration86; and when a voice spoke and I heard Oliver’s accents surcharged with nothing more grievous than pity, I realised that my secret was as yet unshared, and seeing that no man suspected me, I forebore to declare my guilt to any one.
This sudden restoration from soundless depths into the pure air of respect and sympathy confused me; and beyond the words KILLED! STRUCK DOWN BY THE BRIDGE! I heard little, till slowly, dully like the call of a bell issuing from a smothering87 mist, I caught the sound of a name and then the words, “He did it just for the watch;” which hardly conveyed meaning to me, so full was I of Oliver’s look and Oliver’s tone and the way his arm supported me as he chided them for their abruptness88 and endeavoured to lead me away.
But the name! It stuck in my ear and gradually it dawned upon my consciousness that another man had been arrested for my crime and that the safety, the reverence89 and the commiseration that were so dear to me had been bought at a price no man of honour might pay.
But I was no longer a man of honour. I was a wretched criminal swaying above a gulf90 of infamy91 in which I had seen others swallowed but had never dreamed of being engulfed92 myself. I never thought of letting myself go — not at this crisis — not while my heart was warm with its resurgence93 into the old life.
And so I let pass this second opportunity for confession94. Afterwards, it was too late — or seemed too late to my demoralised judgment.
My first real awakening95 to the extraordinary horrors of my position was when I realised that circumstances were likely to force me into presiding over the trial of the man Scoville. This I felt to be beyond even my rapidly hardening conscience. I made great efforts to evade96 it, but they all failed. Then I feigned97 sickness, only to realise that my place would be taken by Judge Grosvenor, a notoriously prejudiced man. If he sat, it would go hard with the prisoner, and I wanted the prisoner acquitted98. I had no grudge99 against John Scoville. I was grateful to him. By his own confession he was a thief, but he was no murderer, and his bad repute had stood me in good stead. Attention had been so drawn to him by the circumstances in which the devil had entangled100 him, that it had never even glanced my way and now never would. Of course, I wanted to save him, and if the only help I could now give him was to sit as judge upon his case, then would I sit as judge whatever mental torture it involved.
Sending for Mr. Black, I asked him pointblank whether in face of the circumstance that the victim of this murder was my best friend, he would not prefer to plead his case before Judge Grosvenor. He answered no: that he had more confidence in my equity101 even under these circumstances than in that of my able, but headstrong, colleague; and prayed me to get well. He did not say that he expected me on this very account to show even more favour towards his client than I might otherwise have done, but I am sure that he meant it; and, taking his attitude as an omen13, I obeyed his injunction and was soon well enough to take my seat upon the Bench.
No one will expect me to enlarge upon the sufferings of that time. By some I was thought stoical; by others, a prey102 to such grief that only my duty as judge kept me to my task. Neither opinion was true. What men saw facing them from the Bench was an automaton103 wound up to do so much work each day. The real Ostrander was not there, but stood, an unseen presence at the bar, undergoing trial side by side with John Scoville, for a crime to make angels weep and humanity hide its head: hypocrisy!
But the days went by and the inexorable hour drew nigh for the accused man’s release or condemnation104. Circumstances were against him — so was his bearing which I alone understood. If, as all felt, it was that of a guilty man, it was so because he had been guilty in intent if not in fact. He had meant to attack Etheridge. He had run down the ravine for that purpose, knowing my old friend’s whistle and envying him his watch. Or why his foolish story of having left his stick behind him at the chestnut? But the sound of my approaching steps higher up on the path had stopped him in mid~career and sent him rushing up the slope ahead of me. When he came back after a short circuit of the fields beyond, it was to find his crime forestalled105 and by the very weapon he had thrown into the Hollow as he went skurrying by. It was the shock of this discovery, heightened by the use he made of it to secure the booty thus thrown in his way without crime, which gave him the hang-dog look we all noted106. That there were other reasons — that the place recalled another scene of brutality107 in which intention had been followed by act, I did not then know. It was sufficient to me then that my safety was secured by his own guilty consciousness and the prevarications into which it led him. Instead of owning up to the encounter he had so barely escaped, he confined himself to the simple declaration of having heard voices somewhere near the bridge, which to all who know the ravine appeared impossible under the conditions named.
Yet, for all these incongruities108 and the failure of his counsel to produce any definite impression by the prisoner’s persistent109 denial of having whittled110 the stick or even of having carried it into Dark Hollow, I expected a verdict in his favour. Indeed, I was so confident of it that I suffered less during the absence of the jury than at any other time, and when they returned, with that air of solemn decision which proclaims unanimity111 of mind and a ready verdict, I was so prepared for his acquittal that for the first time since the opening of the trial, I felt myself a being of flesh and blood, with human sentiments and hopes. And it was:
“Guilty!”
When I woke to a full realisation of what this entailed112 (for I must have lost consciousness for a minute, though no one seemed to notice), the one fact staring me in the face — staring as a live thing stares — was that it would devolve upon me to pronounce his sentence; upon me, Archibald Ostrander, an automaton no longer, but a man realising to the full his part in this miscarriage113 of justice.
Somehow, strange as it may appear, I had thought little of this possibility previous to this moment. I found myself upon the brink114 of this new gulf before the dizziness of my escape from the other had fully115 passed. Do you wonder that I recoiled116, sought to gain time, put off delivering the sentence from day to day? I had sinned,— sinned irredeemably — but there are depths of infamy beyond which a man cannot go. I had reached that point. Chaos118 confronted me, and in contemplation of it, I fell ill.
What saved me? A new discovery, and the loving sympathy of my son Oliver. One night — a momentous119 one to me — he came to my room and, closing the door behind him, stood with his back to it, contemplating120 me in a way that startled me.
What had happened? What lay behind this new and penetrating121 look, this anxious and yet persistent manner? I dared not think. I dared not yield to the terror which must follow thought. Terror blanches123 the cheek and my cheek must never blanch122 under anybody’s scrutiny124. Never, never, so long as I lived.
“Father,”— the tone quieted me, for I knew from its gentleness that he was hesitating to speak more on his own account than on mine —“you are not looking well; this thing worries you. I hate to see you like this. Is it just the loss of your old friend, or — or~-”
He faltered126, not knowing how to proceed. There was nothing strange in this. There could not have been much encouragement in my expression. I was holding on to myself with much too convulsive a grasp.
“Sometimes I think,” he recommenced, “that you don’t feel quite sure of this man Scoville’s guilt. Is that so? Tell me, father.”
I did not know what to make of him. There was no shrinking from me; no conscious or unconscious accusation in voice or look, but there was a desire to know, and a certain latent resolve behind it all that marked the line between obedient boyhood and thinking, determining man. With all my dread — a dread so great I felt the first grasp of age upon my heart-strings at that moment — I recognised no other course than to meet this inquiry127 of his with the truth — that is, with just so much of the truth as was needed. No more, not one jot128 more. I, therefore, answered, and with a show of self-possession at which I now wonder:
“You are not far from right, Oliver. I have had moments of doubt. The evidence, as you must have noticed, is purely circumstantial.”
“But a jury has convicted him.”
“Yes.”
“On the evidence you mention?”
“Yes.”
“What evidence would satisfy YOU? What would YOU consider a conclusive129 proof of guilt?”
I told him in the set phrases of my profession.
“Then,” he declared as I finished, “you may rest easy as to this man’s right to receive a sentence of death.”
I could not trust my ears.
“I know from personal observation,” he proceeded, approaching me with a firm step, “that he is not only capable of the crime for which he has been convicted, but that he has actually committed one under similar circumstances, and possibly for the same end.”
And he told me the story of that night of storm and bloodshed,— a story which will be found lying near this, in my alcove130 of shame and contrition131.
It had an overwhelming effect upon me. I had been very near death. Suicide must have ended the struggle in which I was engaged, had not this knowledge of actual and unpunished crime come to ease my conscience. John Scoville was worthy132 of death, and, being so, should receive the full reward of his deed. I need hesitate no longer.
That night I slept.
But there came a night when I did not. After the penalty had been paid and to most men’s eyes that episode was over, I turned the first page of that volume of slow retribution which is the doom of the man who sins from impulse, and has the recoil117 of his own nature to face relentlessly133 to the end of his days.
Scoville was in his grave.
I was alive.
Scoville had shot a man for his money.
I had struck a man down in my wrath134.
Scoville’s widow and little child must face a cold and unsympathetic world, with small means and disgrace rising, like a wall, between them and social sympathy, if not between them and the actual means of living.
Oliver’s future faced him untouched. No shadow lay across his path to hinder his happiness or to mar43 his chances.
The results were unequal. I began to see them so, and feel the gnawing of that deathless worm whose ravages135 lay waste the breast, while hand and brain fulfil their routine of work, as though all were well and the foundations of life unshaken.
I suffered as only cowards suffer. I held on to honour; I held on to home; I held on to Oliver, but with misery for my companion and a self-contempt which nothing could abate136. Each time I mounted the Bench, I felt a tug137 at my arm as of a visible, restraining presence. Each time I returned to my home and met the clear eye of Oliver beaming upon me with its ever growing promise of future comradeship, I experienced a rebellion against my own happiness which opened my eyes to my own nature and its inevitable138 demand. I must give up Oliver; or yield my honours, make a full confession and accept whatever consequences it might bring. I am a proud man, and the latter alternative was beyond me. With each passing day, the certainty of this became more absolute and more fixed139. In every man’s nature there lurk140 possibilities of action which he only recognises under stress, also impossibilities which stretch like an iron barrier between him and the excellence141 he craves142. I had come up against such an impossibility. I could forego pleasure, travel, social intercourse, and even the companionship of the one being in whom all my hopes centred, but I could not, of my own volition143, pass from the judge’s bench to the felon’s cell. There I struck the immovable,— the impassable.
I decided in one awful night of renunciation that I would send Oliver out of my life.
The next day I told him abruptly144 . . . hurting him to spare myself . . . that I had decided after long and mature thought to yield to his desire for journalism145, and that I would start him in his career and maintain him in it for three years if he would subscribe146 to the following conditions:
They were the hardest a loving father ever imposed upon a dutiful and loving son.
First: he was to leave home immediately . . . within a few hours, in fact.
Secondly147: he was to regard all relations between us as finished; we were to be strangers henceforth in every particular save that of the money obligation already mentioned.
Thirdly: he was never to acknowledge this compact, or to cast any slur148 upon the father whose reasons for this apparently149 unnatural150 conduct were quite disconnected with any fault of his or any desire to punish or reprove.
Fourthly: he was to pray for his father every night of his life before he slept.
Was this last a confession? Had I meant it to be such? If so, it missed its point. It awed151 but did not enlighten him. I had to contend with his compunctions, as well as with his grief and dismay. It was an hour of struggle on his part and of implacable resolution on mine. Nothing but such hardness on my part would have served me. Had I faltered once he would have won me over, and the tale of my sleepless152 nights been repeated. I did not falter125; and when the midnight stroke rang through the house that night, it separated by its peal153, a sin-beclouded but human past from a future arid154 with solitude155 and bereft156 of the one possession to retain which my sin had been hidden.
I was a father without a son — as lonely and as desolate157 as though the separation between us were that of the grave I had merited and so weakly shunned158.
And thus I lived for a year.
But I was not yet satisfied.
The toll159 I had paid to Grief did not seem to me a sufficient punishment for a crime which entailed imprisonment160 if not death. How could I insure for myself the extreme punishment which my peace demanded, without bringing down upon me the full consequences I refused to accept.
You have seen to-day how I ultimately answered this question. A convict’s bed! a convict’s isolation161.
Bela served me in this; Bela who knew my secret and knowing continued to love me. He gathered up these rods singly and in distant places and set them up across the alcove in my room. He had been a convict once himself.
Being now in my rightful place, I could sleep again.
But after some weeks of this, fresh fears arose. An accident was possible. For all Bela’s precautions, some one might gain access to this room. This would mean the discovery of my secret. Some new method must be devised for securing me absolutely against intrusion. Entrance into my simple, almost unguarded cottage must be made impossible. A close fence should replace the pickets162 now surrounding it — a fence with a gate having its own lock.
And this fence was built.
This should have been enough. But guilt has terrors unknown to innocence. One day I caught a small boy peering through an infinitesimal crack in the fence, and, remembering the window grilled163 with iron with which Bela had replaced the cheerful casement164 in my den2 of punishment, I realised how easily an opening might be made between the boards for the convenience of a curious eye anxious to penetrate165 the mystery of my seclusion166.
And so it came about that the inner fence was put up.
This settled my position in the town. No more visits. All social life was over.
It was meet. I was satisfied at last. I could now give my whole mind to my one remaining duty. I lived only while on the Bench.
March Fifth, 1898.
There is a dream which comes to me often: a vision which I often see.
It is that of two broken and irregular walls standing apart against a background of roseate sky. Between these walls the figures of a woman and child, turning about to go.
The bridge I never see, nor the face of the man who died for my sin; but this I see always: the gaunt ruins of Spencer’s Folly and the figure of a woman leading away a little child.
That woman lives. I know now who she is. Her testimony167 was uttered before me in court, and was not one to rouse my apprehensions168. My crime was unwitnessed by her, and for years she has been a stranger to this town. But I have a superstitious169 horror of seeing her again, while believing that the day will come when I shall do so. When this occurs,— when I look up and find her in my path, I shall know that my sin has found me out and that the end is near.
1909
O shade of Algernon Etheridge, unforgetting and unforgiving! The woman has appeared! She stood in this room to-day. Verily, years are nothing with God.
Added later.
I thought I knew what awaited me if my hour ever came. But who can understand the ways of Providence or where the finger of retributive Justice will point. It is Oliver’s name and not mine which has become the sport of calumny170. Oliver’s! Could the irony171 of life go further! OLIVER’S!
There is nothing against him, and such folly must soon die out; but to see doubt in Mrs. Scoville’s eyes is horrible in itself and to eliminate it I may have to show her Oliver’s account of that long-forgotten night of crime in Spencer’s Folly. It is naively172 written and reveals a clean, if reticent173, nature; but that its effect may be unquestionable I will insert a few lines to cover any possible misinterpretation of his manner or conduct. There is an open space, and our handwritings were always strangely alike. Only our e’s differed, and I will be careful with the e’s.
HER confidence must be restored at all hazards.
My last foolish attempt has undone174 me. Nothing remains175 now but that sacrifice of self which should have been made twelve years ago.
收听单词发音 |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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lank
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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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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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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10
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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11
immolation
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| n.牺牲品 | |
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12
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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13
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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14
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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15
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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16
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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17
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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18
conciliation
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| n.调解，调停 | |
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19
waylaying
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的现在分词 ) | |
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20
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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21
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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22
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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23
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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24
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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25
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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26
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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27
antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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28
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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29
culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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30
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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31
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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32
quelling
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的现在分词 ) | |
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33
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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34
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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35
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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36
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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37
forensic
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| adj.法庭的，雄辩的 | |
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38
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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39
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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40
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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41
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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42
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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43
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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44
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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45
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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46
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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47
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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48
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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49
intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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50
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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51
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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52
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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53
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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54
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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55
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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56
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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57
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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58
belittling
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| 使显得微小，轻视，贬低( belittle的现在分词 ) | |
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59
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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60
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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61
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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62
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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63
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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64
blotch
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| n.大斑点；红斑点；v.使沾上污渍，弄脏 | |
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65
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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66
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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67
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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68
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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69
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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70
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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71
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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72
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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73
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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74
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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75
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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76
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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77
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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78
unfamiliar
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|
| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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79
slayer
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| n. 杀人者，凶手 | |
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80
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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81
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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82
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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83
skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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84
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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85
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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86
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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87
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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88
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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89
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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90
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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91
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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92
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
resurgence
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| n.再起，复活，再现 | |
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94
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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95
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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96
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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97
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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98
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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99
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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100
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
equity
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| n.公正，公平，（无固定利息的）股票 | |
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102
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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103
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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104
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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105
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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106
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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107
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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108
incongruities
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| n.不协调( incongruity的名词复数 )；不一致；不适合；不协调的东西 | |
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109
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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110
whittled
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| v.切，削（木头），使逐渐变小( whittle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
unanimity
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| n.全体一致，一致同意 | |
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112
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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113
miscarriage
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| n.失败，未达到预期的结果；流产 | |
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114
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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115
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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116
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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117
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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118
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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119
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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120
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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121
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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122
blanch
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| v.漂白；使变白；使(植物)不见日光而变白 | |
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123
blanches
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| v.使变白( blanch的第三人称单数 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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124
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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125
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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126
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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127
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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128
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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129
conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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130
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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131
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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132
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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133
relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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134
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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135
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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136
abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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138
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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139
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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140
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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141
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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142
craves
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| 渴望，热望( crave的第三人称单数 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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143
volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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144
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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145
journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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146
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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147
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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148
slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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149
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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150
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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151
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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153
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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154
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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155
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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156
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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157
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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158
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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160
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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161
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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162
pickets
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| 罢工纠察员( picket的名词复数 ) | |
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grilled
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| adj. 烤的, 炙过的, 有格子的 动词grill的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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164
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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165
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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166
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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167
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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168
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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169
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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170
calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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171
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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172
naively
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| adv. 天真地 | |
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173
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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174
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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175
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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