An observer would have felt in the complexion9 of this gathering10 a somewhat mixed quality — a quality that was at once strange and familiar, alien and native, cosmopolitan11 and provincial12. It was not the single native quality of the usual crowd that one saw on the station platforms of the typical Catawba town as the trains passed through. This crowd was more mixed and varied13, and it had a strong colouring of worldly smartness, the element of fashionable sophistication that one sometimes finds in a place where a native and alien population have come together. And such an inference was here warranted: the town of Altamont a mile or so away was a well-known resort and the mixed gathering on the station platform was fairly representative of its population. But all of these people, both strange and native, had been drawn14 here by a common experience, an event which has always been of first interest in the lives of all Americans. This event is the coming of the train.
It would have been evident to an observer that of the four people who were standing together at one end of the platform three — the two women and the boy — were connected by the relationship of blood. A stranger would have known instantly that the boy and the young woman were brother and sister and that the woman was their mother. The relationship was somehow one of tone, texture15, time, and energy, and of the grain and temper of the spirit. The mother was a woman of small but strong and solid figure. Although she was near her sixtieth year, her hair was jet-black and her face, full of energy and power, was almost as smooth and unlined as the face of a girl. Her hair was brushed back from a forehead which was high, white, full, and naked-looking, and which, together with the expression of her eyes, which were brown, and rather worn and weak, but constantly thoughtful, constantly reflective, gave her face the expression of straight grave innocence16 that children have, and also of strong native intelligence and integrity. Her skin was milk-white, soft of texture, completely colourless save for the nose, which was red, broad and fleshy at the base, and curiously17 masculine.
A stranger seeing her for the first time would have known somehow that the woman was a member of a numerous family, and that her face had the tribal18 look. He would somehow have felt certain that the woman had brothers and that if he could see them, they would look like her. Yet, this masculine quality was not a quality of sex, for the woman, save for the broad manlike nose, was as thoroughly19 female as a woman could be. It was rather a quality of tribe and character — a tribe and character that was decisively masculine.
The final impression of the woman might have been this:— that her life was somehow above and beyond a moral judgment20, that no matter what the course or chronicle of her life may have been, no matter what crimes of error, avarice21, ignorance, or thoughtlessness might be charged to her, no matter what suffering or evil consequences may have resulted to other people through any act of hers, her life was somehow beyond these accidents of time, training, and occasion, and the woman was as guiltless as a child, a river, an avalanche22, or any force of nature whatsoever23.
The younger of the two women was about thirty years old. She was a big woman, nearly six feet tall, large, and loose of bone and limb, almost gaunt. Both women were evidently creatures of tremendous energy, but where the mother suggested a constant, calm, and almost tireless force, the daughter was plainly one of those big, impulsive24 creatures of the earth who possess a terrific but undisciplined vitality, which they are ready to expend25 with a whole-souled and almost frenzied26 prodigality27 on any person, enterprise, or object which appeals to their grand affections.
This difference between the two women was also reflected in their faces. The face of the mother, for all its amazing flexibility28, the startled animal-like intentness with which her glance darted29 from one object to another, and the mobility30 of her powerful and delicate mouth, which she pursed and convolved with astonishing flexibility in such a way as to show the constant reflective effort of her mind, was nevertheless the face of a woman whose spirit had an almost elemental quality of patience, fortitude31 and calm.
The face of the younger woman was large, high-boned, and generous and already marked by the frenzy33 and unrest of her own life. At moments it bore legibly and terribly the tortured stain of hysteria, of nerves stretched to the breaking point, of the furious impatience34, unrest and dissonance of her own tormented35 spirit, and of impending36 exhaustion37 and collapse38 for her overwrought vitality. Yet, in an instant, this gaunt, strained, tortured, and almost hysterical39 face could be transformed by an expression of serenity40, wisdom and repose41 that would work unbelievably a miracle of calm and radiant beauty on the nervous, gaunt, and tortured features.
Now, each in her own way, the two women were surveying the other people on the platform and the new arrivals with a ravenous42 and absorptive interest, bestowing43 on each a wealth of information, comment, and speculation44 which suggested an encyclop?dic knowledge of the history of every one in the community.
“— Why, yes, child,” the mother was saying impatiently, as she turned her quick glance from a group of people who at the moment were the subject of discussion —“that’s what I’m telling you! — Don’t I know? . . . Didn’t I grow up with all those people? . . . Wasn’t Emma Smathers one of my girlhood friends? . . . That boy’s not this woman’s child at all. He’s Emma Smathers’ child by that first marriage.”
“Well, that’s news to me,” the younger woman answered. “That’s certainly news to me. I never knew Steve Randolph had been married more than once. I’d always thought that all that bunch were Mrs. Randolph’s children.”
“Why, of course not!” the mother cried impatiently. “She never had any of them except Lucille. All the rest of them were Emma’s children. Steve Randolph was a man of forty-five when he married her. He’d been a widower45 for years — poor Emma died in childbirth when Bernice was born — nobody ever thought he’d marry again and nobody ever expected this woman to have any children of her own, for she was almost as old as he was — why, yes! — hadn’t she been married before, a widow, you know, when she met him, came here after her first husband’s death from some place way out West — oh, Wyoming, or Nevada or Idaho, one of those States, you know — and had never had chick nor child, as the saying goes — till she married Steve. And that woman was every day of forty-four years old when Lucille was born.”
“Uh-huh! . . . Ah-hah! the younger woman muttered absently, in a tone of rapt and fascinated interest, as she looked distantly at the people in the other group, and reflectively stroked her large chin with a big, bony hand. “So Lucille, then, is really John’s half-sister?”
“Why, of course!” the mother cried. “I thought every one knew that. Lucille’s the only one that this woman can lay claim to. The rest of them were Emma’s.”
“— Well, that’s certainly news to me,” the younger woman said slowly as before. “It’s the first I ever heard of it. . . . And you say she was forty-four when Lucille was born?”
“Now, she was all of THAT,” the mother said. “I know. And she may have been even older.”
“Well,” the younger woman said, and now she turned to her silent husband, Barton, with a hoarse46 snigger, “it just goes to show that while there’s life there’s hope, doesn’t it? So cheer up, honey,” she said to him, “we may have a chance yet.” But despite her air of rough banter47 her clear eyes for a moment had a look of deep pain and sadness in them.
“Chance!” the mother cried strongly, with a little scornful pucker48 of the lips —“why, of course there is! If I was your age again I’d have a dozen — and never think a thing of it.” For a moment she was silent, pursing her reflective lips. Suddenly a faint sly smile began to flicker49 at the edges of her lips, and turning to the boy, she addressed him with an air of sly and bantering50 mystery:
“Now, boy,” she said —“there’s lots of things that you don’t know . . . you always thought you were the last — the youngest — didn’t you?”
“Well, wasn’t I?” he said.
“H’m!” she said with a little scornful smile and an air of great mystery —“There’s lots that I could tell you —”
“Oh, my God!” he groaned51, turning towards his sister with an imploring52 face. “More mysteries! . . . The next thing I’ll find that there were five sets of triplets after I was born — Well, come on, Mama,” he cried impatiently. “Don’t hint around all day about it. . . . What’s the secret now — how many were there?”
“H’m!” she said with a little bantering, scornful, and significant smile.
“O Lord!” he groaned again —“Did she ever tell you what it was?” Again he turned imploringly53 to his sister.
She snickered hoarsely54, a strange high-husky and derisive55 falsetto laugh, at the same time prodding56 him stiffly in the ribs57 with her big fingers:
“Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi,” she laughed. “More spooky business, hey? You don’t know the half of it. She’ll be telling you next you were only the fourteenth.”
“H’m!” the older woman said, with a little scornful smile of her pursed lips. “Now I could tell him more than that! The fourteenth! Pshaw!” she said contemptuously —“I could tell him —”
“O God!” he groaned miserably58. “I knew it! . . . I don’t want to hear it.”
“K, k, k, k, k,” the younger woman snickered derisively59, prodding him in the ribs again.
“No, sir,” the older woman went on strongly —“and that’s not all either! — Now, boy, I want to tell you something that you didn’t know,” and as she spoke60 she turned the strange and worn stare of her serious brown eyes on him, and levelled a half-clasped hand, fingers pointing, a gesture loose, casual, and instinctive61 and powerful as a man’s. —“There’s a lot I could tell you that you never heard. Long years after you were born, child — why, at the time I took you children to the Saint Louis Fair —” here her face grew stern and sad, she pursed her lips strongly and shook her head with a short convulsive movement —“oh, when I think of it — to think what I went through — oh, awful, awful, you know,” she whispered ominously62.
“Now, Mama, for God’s sake, I don’t want to hear it!” he fairly shouted, beside himself with exasperation63 and foreboding. “God-damn it, can we have no peace — even when I go away!” he cried bitterly, and illogically. “Always these damned gloomy hints and revelations — this Pentland spooky stuff,” he yelled —“this damned I-could-if-I-wanted-to-tell-you air of mystery, horror, and damnation!” he shouted incoherently. “Who cares? What does it matter?” he cried, adding desperately64, “I don’t want to hear about it — No one cares.”
“Why, child, now, I was only saying —” she began hastily and diplomatically.
“All right, all right, all right,” he muttered. “I don’t care —”
“But, as I say, now,” she resumed.
“I don’t care!” he shouted. “Peace, peace, peace, peace, peace,” he muttered in a crazy tone as he turned to his sister. “A moment’s peace for all of us before we die. A moment of peace, peace, peace.”
“Why, boy, I’ll vow65,” the mother said in a vexed66 tone, fixing her reproving glance on him, “what on earth’s come over you? You act like a regular crazy man. I’ll vow you do.”
“A moment’s peace!” he muttered again, thrusting one hand wildly through his hair. “I beg and beseech67 you for a moment’s peace before we perish!”
“K, k, k, k, k,” the younger woman snickered derisively, as she poked68 him stiffly in the ribs —“There’s no peace for the weary. It’s like that river that goes on for ever,” she said with a faint loose curving of lewd69 humour around the edges of her generous big mouth —“Now you see, don’t you?” she said, looking at him with this lewd and challenging look. “You see what it’s like now, don’t you? . . . YOU’RE the lucky one! YOU got away! You’re smart enough to go way off somewhere to college — to Boston — Harvard — anywhere — but YOU’RE away from it. You get it for a short time when you come home. How do you think I stand it?” she said challengingly. “I have to hear it ALL the time. . . . Oh, ALL the time, and ALL the time, and ALL the time!” she said with a kind of weary desperation. “If they’d only leave me ALONE for five minutes some time I think I’d be able to pull myself together, but it’s this way ALL the time and ALL the time and ALL the time. You see, don’t you?”
But now, having finished, in a tone of hoarse and panting exasperation, her frenzied protest, she relapsed immediately into a state of marked, weary, and dejected resignation.
“Well, I know, I know,” she said in a weary and indifferent voice. “ . . . Forget about it . . . Talking does no good . . . Just try to make the best of it the little time you’re here. . . . I used to think something could be done about it . . . but I know different now,” she muttered, although she would have been unable to explain the logical meaning of these incoherent and disjointed phrases.
“Hah? . . . What say?” the mother now cried sharply, darting70 her glances from one to another with the quick, startled, curiously puzzled intentness of an animal or a bird. “What say?” she cried sharply again, as no one answered. “I thought —”
But fortunately, at this moment, this strange and disturbing flash in which had been revealed the blind and tangled72 purposes, the powerful and obscure impulses, the tormented nerves, the whole tragic73 perplexity of soul which was of the very fabric74 of their lives, was interrupted by a commotion75 in one of the groups upon the platform, and by a great guffaw76 of laughter which instantly roused these three people from this painful and perplexing scene, and directed their startled attention to the place from which the laughter came.
And now again they heard the great guffaw — a solid “Haw! Haw! Haw!” which was full of such an infectious exuberance77 of animal good-nature that other people on the platform began to smile instinctively78, and to look affectionately towards the owner of the laugh.
Already, at the sound of the laugh, the young woman had forgotten the weary and dejected resignation of the moment before, and with an absent and yet eager look of curiosity in her eyes, she was staring towards the group from which the laugh had come, and herself now laughing absently, she was stroking her big chin in a gesture of meditative79 curiosity, saying:
“Hah! Hah! Hah! . . . That’s George Pentland. . . . You can tell him anywhere by his laugh.”
“Why, yes,” the mother was saying briskly, with satisfaction. “That’s George all right. I’d know him in the dark the minute that I heard that laugh. — And say, what about it? He’s always had it — why, ever since he was a kid-boy — and was going around with Steve. . . . Oh, he’d come right out with it anywhere, you know, in Sunday school, church, or while the preacher was sayin’ prayers before collection — that big, loud laugh, you know, that you could hear, from here to yonder, as the sayin’ goes. . . . Now I don’t know where it comes from — none of the others ever had it in our family; now we all liked to laugh well enough, but I never heard no such laugh as that from any of ’em-there’s one thing sure, Will Pentland never laughed like that in his life — Oh, Pett, you know! Pett!”— a scornful and somewhat malicious80 look appeared on the woman’s face as she referred to her brother’s wife in that whining81 and affected82 tone with which women imitate the speech of other women whom they do not like —“Pett got so mad at him one time when he laughed right out in church that she was goin’ to take the child right home an’ whip him. — Told me, says to me, you know —‘Oh, I could wring83 his neck! He’ll disgrace us all,’ she says, ‘unless I cure him of it,’ says, ‘He burst right out in that great roar of his while Doctor Baines was sayin’ his prayers this morning until you couldn’t hear a word the preacher said.’ Said, ‘I was so mortified84 to think he could do a thing like that that I’d a-beat the blood right out of him if I’d had my buggy whip,’ says, ‘I don’t know where it comes from’— oh, sneerin’-like, you know,” the woman said, imitating the other woman’s voice with a sneering85 and viperous86 dislike —”‘I don’t know where it comes from unless it’s some of that common Pentland blood comin’ out in him’—‘Now you listen to me,’ I says; oh, I looked her in the eye, you know”— here the woman looked at her daughter with the straight steady stare of her worn brown eyes, illustrating87 her speech with the loose and powerful gesture of the half-clasped finger-pointing hand —”‘you listen to me. I don’t know where that child gets his laugh,’ I says, ‘but you can bet your bottom dollar that he never got it from his father — or any other Pentland that I ever heard of — for none of them ever laughed that way — Will, or Jim, or Sam, or George, or Ed, or Father, or even Uncle Bacchus,’ I said —‘no, nor old Bill Pentland either, who was that child’s great-grandfather — for I’ve seen an’ heard ’em all,’ I says. ‘And as for this common Pentland blood you speak of, Pett’— oh, I guess I talked to her pretty straight, you know,” she said with a little bitter smile, and the short, powerful, and convulsive tremor89 of her strong pursed lips — “‘as for that common Pentland blood you speak of, Pett,’ I says, ‘I never heard of that either — for we stood high in the community,’ I says, ‘and we all felt that Will was lowerin’ himself when he married a Creasman!’”
“Oh, you didn’t say that, Mama, surely not,” the young woman said with a hoarse, protesting, and yet abstracted laugh, continuing to survey the people on the platform with a bemused and meditative curiosity, and stroking her big chin thoughtfully as she looked at them, pausing from time to time to grin in a comical and rather formal manner, bow graciously and murmur90:
“How-do-you-do? ah-hah! How-do-you-do, Mrs. Willis?”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” Again the great laugh of empty animal good nature burst out across the station platform, and this time George Pentland turned from the group of which he was a member and looked vacantly around him, his teeth bared with savage91 joy, as, with two brown fingers of his strong left hand, he dug vigorously into the muscular surface of his hard thigh92. It was an animal reflex, instinctive and unconscious, habitual93 to him in moments of strong mirth.
He was a powerful and handsome young man in his early thirties, with coal-black hair, a strong thick neck, powerful shoulders, and the bull vitality of the athlete. He had a red, sensual, curiously animal and passionate94 face, and when he laughed his great guffaw, his red lips were bared over two rows of teeth that were white and regular and solid as ivory.
— But now, the paroxysm of that savage and mindless laughter having left him, George Pentland had suddenly espied95 the mother and her children, waved to them in genial96 greeting, and excusing himself from his companions — a group of young men and women who wore the sporting look and costume of “the country club crowd”— he was walking towards his kinsmen97 at an indolent swinging stride, pausing to acknowledge heartily98 the greetings of people on every side, with whom he was obviously a great favourite.
As he approached, he bared his strong white teeth again in greeting, and in a drawling, rich-fibred voice, which had unmistakably the Pentland quality of sensual fullness, humour, and assurance, and a subtle but gloating note of pleased self-satisfaction, he said:
“Hello, Aunt Eliza, how are you? Hello, Helen — how are you, Hugh?” he said in his high, somewhat accusing, but very strong and masculine voice, putting his big hand in an easy affectionate way on Barton’s arm. “Where the hell you been keepin’ yourself, anyway?” he said accusingly. “Why don’t some of you folks come over to see us sometime? Elk99 was askin’ about you all the other day — wanted to know why Helen didn’t come round more often.”
“Well, George, I tell you how it is,” the young woman said with an air of great sincerity100 and earnestness. “Hugh and I have intended to come over a hundred times, but life has been just one damned thing after another all summer long. If I could only have a moment’s peace — if I could only get away by myself for a moment — if THEY would only leave me ALONE for an hour at a time, I think I could get myself together again — do you know what I mean, George?” she said hoarsely and eagerly, trying to enlist101 him in her sympathetic confidence —“If they’d only do something for THEMSELVES once in a while — but they ALL come to me when anything goes wrong — they never let me have a moment’s peace — until at times I think I’m going crazy — I get QUEER— funny, you know,” she said vaguely102 and incoherently. “I don’t know whether something happened Tuesday or last week or if I just imagined it.” And for a moment her big gaunt face had the dull strained look of hysteria.
“The strain on her has been very great this summer,” said Barton in a deep and grave tone. “It’s — it’s,” he paused carefully, deeply, searching for a word, and looked down as he flicked103 an ash from his long cigar, “it’s — been too much for her. Everything’s on her shoulders,” he concluded in his deep grave voice.
“My God, George, what is it?” she said quietly and simply, in the tone of one begging for enlightenment. “Is it going to be this way all our lives? Is there never going to be any peace or happiness for us? Does it always have to be this way? Now I want to ask you — is there nothing in the world but trouble?”
“Trouble!” he said derisively. “Why, I’ve had more trouble than any one of you ever heard of. . . . I’ve had enough to kill a dozen people . . . but when I saw it wasn’t goin’ to kill me, I quit worryin’. . . . So you do the same thing,” he advised heartily. “Hell, don’t WORRY, Helen! . . . It never got you anywhere. . . . You’ll be all right,” he said. “You got nothin’ to worry over. You don’t know what trouble is.”
“Oh, I’d be all right, George — I think I could stand anything — all the rest of it — if it wasn’t for Papa. . . . I’m almost crazy from worrying about him this summer. There were three times there when I knew he was gone. . . . And I honestly believe I pulled him back each time by main strength and determination — do you know what I mean?” she said hoarsely and eagerly —“I was just determined104 not to let him go. If his heart had stopped beating I believe I could have done something to make it start again — I’d have stood over him and blown my breath into him — got my blood into him — shook him,” she said with a powerful, nervous movement of her big hands — “anything just to keep him alive.”
“She’s — she’s — saved his life — time after time,” said Barton slowly, flicking105 his cigar ash carefully away, and looking down deeply, searching for a word.
“He’d — he’d — have been a dead man long ago — if it hadn’t been for her.”
“Yeah — I know she has,” George Pentland drawled agreeably. “I know you’ve sure stuck by Uncle Will — I guess he knows it, too.”
“It’s not that I mind it, George — you know what I mean?” she said eagerly. “Good heavens! I believe I could give away a dozen lives if I thought it was going to save his life! . . . But it’s the STRAIN of it. . . . Month after month . . . year after year . . . lying awake at night wondering if he’s all right over there in that back room in Mama’s house — wondering if he’s keeping warm in that old cold house —”
“Why, no, child,” the older woman said hastily. “I kept a good fire burnin’ in that room all last winter — that was the warmest room in the whole place — there wasn’t a warmer —”
But immediately she was engulfed106, swept aside, obliterated107 in the flood-tide of the other’s speech.
“— Wondering if he’s sick or needs me — if he’s begun to bleed again — oh! George, it makes me sick to think about it — that poor old man left there all alone, rotting away with that awful cancer, with that horrible smell about him all the time — everything he wears gets simply STIFF with that rotten corrupt108 matter — Do you know what it is to wait, wait, wait, year after year, and year after year, never knowing when he’s going to die, to have him hang on by a thread until it seems you’ve lived forever — that there’ll never be an end — that you’ll never have a chance to live your own life — to have a moment’s peace or rest or happiness yourself? My God, does it always have to be this way? . . . Can I never have a moment’s happiness? . . . Must they ALWAYS come to me? Does EVERYTHING have to be put on my shoulders? . . . Will you tell me that?” Her voice had risen to a note of frenzied despair. She was glaring at her cousin with a look of desperate and frantic109 entreaty110, her whole gaunt figure tense and strained with the stress of her hysteria.
“That’s — that’s the trouble now,” said Barton, looking down and searching for the word. “She’s . . . She’s . . . made the goat for every one. . . . She . . . she has to do it all. . . . That’s . . . that’s the thing that’s got her down.”
“Not that I mind — if it will do any good. . . . Good heaven’s, Papa’s life means more to me than anything on earth. . . . I’d keep him alive at any cost as long as there was a breath left in him. . . . But it’s the strain of it, the STRAIN of it — to wait, to wait year after year, to feel it hanging over you all the time, never to know when he will die — always the STRAIN, the strain — do you see what I mean, George?” she said hoarsely, eagerly, and pleadingly. “You see, don’t you?”
“I sure do, Helen,” he said sympathetically, digging at his thigh, and with a swift, cat-like grimace111 of his features. “I know it’s been mighty112 tough on you. . . . How is Uncle Will now?” he said. “Is he any better?”
“Why, yes,” the mother was saying, “he seemed to improve —” but she was cut off immediately.
“Oh, yes,” the daughter said in a tone of weary dejection. “He pulled out of this last spell and got well enough to make the trip to Baltimore — we sent him back a week ago to take another course of treatments. . . . But it does no real good, George. . . . They can’t cure him. . . . We know that now. . . . They’ve told us that. . . . It only prolongs the agony. . . . They help him for a little while and then it all begins again. . . . Poor old man!” she said, and her eyes were wet. “I’d give everything I have — my own blood, my own life — if it would do him any good — but, George, he’s gone!” she said desperately. “Can’t you understand that? . . . They can’t save him! . . . Nothing can save him! . . . Papa’s a dead man now!”
George looked gravely sympathetic for a moment, winced113 swiftly, dug hard fingers in his thigh, and then said:
“Who went to Baltimore with him?”
“Why, Luke’s up there,” the mother said. “We had a letter from him yesterday — said Mr. Gant looks much better already — eats well, you know, has a good appetite — and Luke says he’s in good spirits. Now —”
“Oh, Mama, for heaven’s sake!” the daughter cried. “What’s the use of talking that way? . . . He’s not getting any better. . . . Papa’s a sick man — dying — good God! Can no one ever get that into their heads!” she burst out furiously. “Am I the only one that realizes how sick he is?”
“No, now I was only sayin’,” the mother began hastily —“Well, as I say, then,” she went on, “Luke’s up there with him — and Gene32’s on his way there now — he’s goin’ to stop off there tomorrow on his way up north to school.”
“Gene!” cried George Pentland in a high, hearty114, bantering tone, turning to address the boy directly for the first time. “What’s all this I hear about you, son?” He clasped his muscular hand around the boy’s arm in a friendly but powerful grip. “Ain’t one college enough for you, boy?” he drawled, becoming deliberately115 ungrammatical and speaking good-naturedly but with a trace of the mockery which the wastrel116 and ne’er-do-well sometimes feels towards people who have had the energy and application required for steady or concentrated effort. “Are you one of those fellers who needs two or three colleges to hold him down?”
The boy flushed, grinned uncertainly, and said nothing.
“Why, son,” drawled George in his hearty, friendly and yet bantering tone, in which a note of malice117 was evident, “you’ll be gettin’ so educated an’ high-brow here before long that you won’t be able to talk to the rest of us at all. . . . You’ll be floatin’ around there so far up in the clouds that you won’t even see a roughneck like me, much less talk to him”— As he went on with this kind of sarcasm118, his speech had become almost deliberately illiterate119, as if trying to emphasize the superior virtue120 of the rough, hearty, home-grown fellow in comparison with the bookish scholar.
“— Where’s he goin’ to this time, Aunt Eliza?” he said, turning to her questioningly, but still holding the boy’s arm in his strong grip “Where’s he headin’ for now?”
“Why,” she said, stroking her pursed serious mouth with a slightly puzzled movement, “he says he’s goin’ to Harvard. I reckon,” she said, in the same puzzled tone, “it’s all right — I guess he knows what he’s about. Says he’s made up his mind to go — I told him,” she said, and shook her head again, “that I’d send him for a year if he wanted to try it — an’ then he’ll have to get out an’ shift for himself. We’ll see,” she said. “I reckon it’s all right.”
“Harvard, eh?” said George Pentland. “Boy, you ARE flyin’ high! . . . What you goin’ to do up there?”
The boy, furiously red of face, squirmed, and finally stammered121:
“Why . . . I . . . guess . . . I guess I’ll do some studying!”
“You GUESS you will!” roared George. “You’d damn well BETTER do some studying — I bet your mother’ll take it out of your hide if she finds you loafin’ on her money.”
“Why, yes,” the mother said, nodding seriously, “I told him it was up to him to make the most of this —”
“Harvard, eh!” George Pentland said again, slowly looking his cousin over from head to foot. “Son, you’re flyin’ high, you are! . . . Now don’t fly so high you never get back to earth again! . . . You know the rest of us who didn’t go to Harvard still have to walk around upon the ground down here,” he said. “So don’t fly too high or we may not even be able to see you!”
“George! George!” said the young woman in a low tone, holding one hand to her mouth, and bending over to whisper loudly as she looked at her young brother. “Do you think anyone could fly very high with a pair of feet like that?”
George Pentland looked at the boy’s big feet for a moment, shaking his head slowly in much wonderment.
“Hell, no!” he said at length. “He’d never get off the ground! . . . But if you cut ’em off,” he said, “he’d go right up like a balloon, wouldn’t he? Haw! Haw! Haw! Haw!” The great guffaw burst from him, and grinning with his solid teeth, he dug blindly at his thigh.
“Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi,” the sister jeered122, seeing the boy’s flushed and angry face and prodding him derisively in the ribs —“This is our Harvard boy! k, k, k, k!”
“Don’t let ’em kid you, son,” said George now in an amiable123 and friendly manner. “Good luck to you! Give ’em hell when you get up there! . . . You’re the only one of us who ever had guts124 enough to go through college, and we’re proud of you! . . . Tell Uncle Bascom and Aunt Louise and all the rest of ’em hello for me when you get to Boston. . . . And remember me to your father and Luke when you get to Baltimore. . . . Good-bye, Gene — I’ve got to leave you now. Good luck, son,” and with a friendly grip of his powerful hand he turned to go. “You folks come over sometime — all of you,” he said in parting. “We’d like to see you.” And he went away.
At this moment, all up and down the platform, people had turned to listen to the deep excited voice of a young man who was saying in a staccato tone of astounded125 discovery:
“You DON’T mean it! . . . You SWEAR she did! . . . And YOU were there and saw it with your OWN eyes! . . . Well, if that don’t beat all I ever heard of! . . . I’ll be DAMNED!” after which ejaculation, with an astounded falsetto laugh, he looked about him in an abstracted and unseeing manner, thrust one hand quickly and nervously126 into his trousers pocket in such a way that his fine brown coat came back, and the large diamond-shaped pin of the Delta127 Kappa Epsilon fraternity was revealed, and at the same time passing one thin nervous hand repeatedly over the lank128 brown hair that covered his small and well-shaped head, and still muttering in tones of stupefied disbelief —“Lord! Lord! . . . What do you know about that?” suddenly espied the woman and her two children at the other end of the platform, and without a moment’s pause, turned on his heel, and walked towards them, at the same time muttering to his astonished friends:
“Wait a minute! . . . Some one over here I’ve got to speak to! . . . Back in a minute!”
He approached the mother and her children rapidly, at his stiff, prim129 and somewhat lunging stride, his thin face fixed130 eagerly upon them, bearing towards them with a driving intensity131 of purpose as if the whole interest and energy of his life were focussed on them, as if some matter of the most vital consequence depended on his reaching them as soon as possible. Arrived, he immediately began to address the other youth without a word of greeting or explanation, bursting out with the sudden fragmentary explosiveness that was part of him:
“Are you taking this train, too? . . . Are you going today? . . . Well, what did you decide to do?” he demanded mysteriously in an accusing and challenging fashion. “Have you made up your mind yet? . . . Pett Barnes says you’ve decided132 on Harvard. Is that it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Lord, Lord!” said the youth, laughing his falsetto laugh again. “I don’t see how you can! . . . You’d better come on with me. . . . What ever got into your head to do a thing like that?” he said in a challenging tone. “Why do you want to go to a place like that?”
“Hah? What say?” The mother who had been looking from one to the other of the two boys with the quick and startled attentiveness133 of an animal, now broke in:
“You know each other. . . . Hah? . . . You’re taking this train, too, you say?” she said sharply.
“Ah-hah-hah!” the young man laughed abruptly134, nervously; grinned, made a quick stiff little bow, and said with nervous engaging respectfulness: “Yes, Ma’am! . . . Ah-hah-hah! . . . How d’ye do? . . . How d’ye do, Mrs. Gant?” He shook hands with her quickly, still laughing his broken and nervous “ah-hah-hah”—“How d’ye do?” he said, grinning nervously at the younger woman and at Barton. “Ah-hah-hah. How d’ye do?”
The older woman still holding his hand in her rough worn clasp looked up at him a moment calmly, her lips puckered135 in tranquil136 meditation137:
“Now,” she said quietly, in the tone of a person who refuses to admit failure, “I know you. I know your face. Just give me a moment and I’ll call you by your name.”
The young man grinned quickly, nervously, and then said respectfully in his staccato speech:
“Yes, Ma’am. . . . Ah-hah-hah. . . . Robert Weaver138.”
“AH-H, that’s SO!” she cried, and shook his hands with sudden warmth. “You’re Robert Weaver’s boy, of course.”
“Ah-hah-hah!” said Robert, with his quick nervous laugh. “Yes, Ma’am. . . . That’s right. . . . Ah-hah-hah. . . . Gene and I went to school together. We were in the same class at the University.”
“Why, of course!” she cried in a tone of complete enlightenment, and then went on in a rather vexed manner, “I’ll VOW! I knew you all along! I knew that I’d seen you just as soon as I saw your face! Your name just slipped my mind a moment — and then, of course, it all flashed over me. . . . You’re Robert Weaver’s boy! . . . And you ARE,” she still held his hand in her strong, motherly and friendly clasp, and looking at him with a little sly smile hovering139 about the corners of her mouth, she was silent a moment, regarding him quizzically —“now, boy,” she said quietly, “you may think I’ve got a pretty poor memory for names and faces — but I want to tell you something that may surprise you. . . . I know more about you than you think I do. Now,” she said, “I’m going to tell you something and you can tell me if I’m right.”
“Ah-hah-hah!” said Robert respectfully. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“You were born,” she went on slowly and deliberately, “on September 2nd, 1898, and you are just two years and one month and one day older than this boy here —” she nodded to her own son. “Now you can tell me if I’m right or wrong.”
“Ah-hah-hah!” said Robert. “Yes, Ma’am. . . . That’s right. . . . You’re absolutely right,” he cried, and then in an astounded and admiring tone, he said: “Well, I’ll declare. . . . If that don’t beat all! . . . How on earth did you ever remember it!” he cried in an astonished tone that obviously was very gratifying to her vanity.
“Well, now, I’ll tell you,” she said with a little complacent140 smile —“I’ll tell you how I KNOW. . . . I remember the day you were born, boy — because it was on that very day that one of my own children — my son, Luke — was allowed to get up out of bed after havin’ typhoid fever. . . . That very day, sir, when Mr. Gant came home to dinner, he said —‘Well, I was just talking to Robert Weaver on the street and everything’s all right. His wife gave birth to a baby boy this morning and he says she’s out of danger.’ And I know I said to him, ‘Well, then, it’s been a lucky day for both of us. McGuire was here this morning and he said Luke is now well enough to be up and about. He’s out of danger.’— And I reckon,” she went on quietly, “that’s why the date made such an impression on me — of course, Luke had been awfully141 sick,” she said gravely, and shook her head, “we thought he was goin’ to die more than once — so when the doctor came and told me he was out of danger — well, it was a day of rejoicin’ for me, sure enough. But that’s how I know — September 2nd, 1898 — that’s when it was, all right, the very day when you were born.”
“Ah-hah-hah!” said Robert. “That is certainly right. . . . Well, if that don’t beat all!” he cried with his astounded and engaging air of surprise. “The most remarkable142 thing I ever heard of!” he said solemnly.
“So the next time you see your father,” the woman said, with the tranquil satisfaction of omniscience143, “you tell him that you met Eliza Pentland — he’ll know who I am, boy — I can assure you — for we were born and brought up within five miles from each other and you can tell him that she knew you right away, and even told you to the hour and minute the day when you were born! . . . You tell him that,” she said.
“Yes, Ma’am!” said Robert respectfully, “I certainly will! . . . I’ll tell him! . . . That is certainly a remarkable thing. . . . Ah-hah-hah! . . . Beats all I ever heard of! . . . Ah-hah-hah,” he kept bowing and smiling to the young woman and her husband, and muttering “ah-hah-hah! . . . Pleased to have met you. . . . Got to go now: some one over here I’ve got to see . . . but I’ll certainly tell him . . . ah-hah-hah. . . . Gene, I’ll see you on the train. . . . Good-bye. . . . Good-bye. . . . Glad to have met you all. . . . Ah-hah-hah. . . . Certainly a remarkable thing. . . . Good-bye!” and turning abruptly, he left them, walking rapidly along at his stiff, prim, curiously lunging stride.
The younger woman looked after the boy’s tall form as he departed, stroking her chin in a reflective and abstracted manner:
“So that’s Judge Robert Weaver’s son, is it? . . . Well,” she went on, nodding her head vigorously in a movement of affirmation. “He’s all right. . . . He’s got good manners. . . . He looks and acts like a gentleman. . . . You can see he’s had a good bringing up. . . . I like him!” she declared positively144 again.
“Why, yes,” said the mother, who had been following the tall retreating form with a reflective look, her hands loose-folded at her waist —“Why, yes,” she continued, nodding her head in a thoughtful and conceding manner that was a little comical in its implications —“He’s a good-looking all-right sort of a boy. . . . And he certainly seems to be intelligent enough.” She was silent for a moment, pursing her lips thoughtfully and then concluded with a little nod —“Well, now, the boy may be all right. . . . I’m not saying that he isn’t. . . . He may turn out all right, after all.”
“All right?” her daughter said, frowning a little and showing a little annoyance145, but with a faint lewd grin around the corners of her mouth —“what do you mean by all right, Mama? Why, of course he’s all right. . . . What makes you think he’s not?”
The other woman was silent for another moment: when she spoke again, her manner was tinged146 with portent147, and she turned and looked at her daughter a moment in a sudden, straight and deadly fashion before she spoke:
“Now, child,” she said, “I’m going to tell you: perhaps everything will turn out all right for that boy — I hope it does — but —”
“Oh, my God!” the younger woman laughed hoarsely but with a shade of anger, and turning, prodded148 her brother stiffly in the ribs. “Now we’ll get it!” she sniggered, prodding him, “k-k-k-k-k! What do you call it?” she said with a lewd frowning grin that was indescribably comic in its evocations of coarse humour —“the low down? — the dirt? — Did you ever know it to fail? — The moment that you meet any one, and up comes the family corpse149.”
“— Well, now, child, I’m not saying anything against the boy — perhaps it won’t touch him — maybe he’ll be the one to escape — to turn out all right — but —”
“Oh, my God!” the younger woman groaned, rolling her eyes around in a comical and imploring fashion. “Here it comes.”
“You are too young to know about it yourself,” the other went on gravely —“you belong to another generation — you don’t know about it — but I DO.” She paused again, shook her pursed lips with a convulsive pucker of distaste, and then, looking at her daughter again in her straight and deadly fashion, said slowly, with a powerful movement of the hand:
“There’s been insanity150 in that boy’s family for generations back!”
“Oh, my God! I knew it!” the other groaned.
“Yes, sir!” the mother said implacably —“and two of his aunts — Robert Weaver’s own sisters died raving151 maniacs152 — and Robert Weaver’s mother herself was insane for the last twenty years of her life up to the hour of her death — and I’ve heard tell that it went back —”
“Well, deliver me,” the younger woman checked her, frowning, speaking almost sullenly153. “I don’t want to hear any more about it. . . . It’s a mighty funny thing that they all seem to get along now — better than we do . . . so let’s let bygones be bygones . . . don’t dig up the past.”
Turning to her brother with a little frowning smile, she said wearily: “Did you ever know it to fail? . . . They know it all, don’t they?” she said mysteriously. “The minute you meet any one you like, they spill the dirt. . . . Well, I don’t care,” she muttered. “You stick to people like that. . . . He looks like a nice boy and —” with an impressed look over towards Robert’s friends, she concluded, “he goes with a nice crowd. . . . You stick to that kind of people. I’m all for him.”
Now the mother was talking again: the boy could see her powerful and delicate mouth convolving with astonishing rapidity in a series of pursed thoughtful lips, tremulous smiles, bantering and quizzical jocosities, old sorrow and memory, quiet gravity, the swift easy fluency154 of tears that the coming of a train always induced in her, thoughtful seriousness, and sudden hopeful speculation.
“Well, boy,” she was now saying gravely, “you are going — as the sayin’ goes —” here she shook her head slightly, strongly, rapidly with powerful puckered lips, and instantly her weak worn eyes of brown were wet with tears —“as the sayin’ goes — to a strange land — a stranger among strange people. — It may be a long, long time,” she whispered in an old husky tone, her eyes tear-wet as she shook her head mysteriously with a brave pathetic smile that suddenly filled the boy with rending155 pity, anguish156 of the soul, and a choking sense of exasperation and of woman’s unfairness —“I hope we are all here when you come back again. . . . I hope you find us all alive . . . .” She smiled bravely, mysteriously, tearfully. “You never know,” she whispered, “you never know.”
“Mama,” he could hear his voice sound hoarsely and remotely in his throat, choked with anguish and exasperation at her easy fluency of sorrow, “— Mama — in Christ’s name! Why do you have to act like this every time someone goes away! . . . I beg of you, for God’s sake, not to do it!”
“Oh, stop it! Stop it!” his sister said in a rough, peremptory157 and yet kindly158 tone to the mother, her eyes grave and troubled, but with a faint rough smile about the edges of her generous mouth. “He’s not going away for ever! Why, good heavens, you act as if someone is dead! Boston’s not so far away you’ll never see him again! The trains are running every day, you know. . . . Besides,” she said abruptly and with an assurance that infuriated the boy, “he’s not going today, anyway. Why, you haven’t any intention of going today, you know you haven’t,” she said to him. “He’s been fooling you all along,” she now said, turning to the mother with an air of maddening assurance. “He has no idea of taking that train. He’s going to wait over until tomorrow. I’ve known it all along.”
The boy went stamping away from them up the platform, and then came stamping back at them while the other people on the platform grinned and stared.
“Helen, in God’s name!” he croaked159 frantically160. “Why do you start that when I’m all packed up and waiting here at the God-damned station for the train? You KNOW I’m going away today!” he yelled, with a sudden sick desperate terror in his heart as he thought that something might now come in the way of going. “You KNOW I am! Why did we come here? What in Christ’s name are we waiting for if you don’t think I’m going?”
The young woman laughed her high, husky laugh which was almost deliberately irritating and derisive —“Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi!”— and plodded161 him in the ribs with her large stiff fingers. Then, almost wearily, she turned away, plucking at her large chin absently, and said: “Well, have it your own way! It’s your own funeral! If you’re determined to go today, no one can stop you. But I don’t see why you can’t just as well wait over till tomorrow.”
“Why, yes!” the mother now said briskly and confidently. “That’s exactly what I’d do if I were you! . . . Now, it’s not going to do a bit of harm to anyone if you’re a day or so late in gettin’ there. . . . Now I’ve never been there myself,” she went on in her tone of tranquil sarcasm, “but I’ve always heard that Harvard University was a good big sort of place — and I’ll bet you’ll find,” the mother now said gravely, with a strong slow nod of conviction — “I’ll bet you’ll find that it’s right there where it always was when you get there. I’ll bet you find they haven’t moved a foot,” she said, “and let me tell you something, boy,” she now continued, looking at him almost sternly, but with a ghost of a smile about her powerful and delicate mouth —“now I haven’t had your education and I reckon I don’t know as much about universities as you do — but I’ve never heard of one yet that would run a feller away for bein’ a day late as long as he’s got money enough to pay his tuition. . . . Now you’ll find ’em waitin’ for you when you get there — and YOU’LL GET IN,” she said slowly and powerfully. “You don’t have to worry about that — they’ll be glad to see you, and they’ll take you in a hurry when they see you’ve got the price.”
“Now, Mama,” he said in a quiet frenzied tone, “I beg of you, for God’s sake, please, not to —”
“All right, all right,” the mother answered hastily in a placating162 tone, “I was only sayin’—”
“If you will kindly, please, for God’s sake —”
“K-k-k-k-k-k!” his sister snickered, poking163 him in the ribs.
But now the train was coming. Down the powerful shining tracks a half-mile away, the huge black snout of the locomotive swung slowly round the magnificent bend and flare164 of the rails that went into the railway yards of Altamont two miles away, and with short explosive thunders of its squat165 funnel166 came barging slowly forward. Across the golden pollenated haze167 of the warm autumnal afternoon they watched it with numb6 lips and an empty hollowness of fear, delight, and sorrow in their hearts.
And from the sensual terror, the ecstatic tension of that train’s approach, all things before, around, about the boy came to instant life, to such sensuous168 and intolerable poignancy169 of life as a doomed170 man might feel who looks upon the world for the last time from the platform of the scaffold where he is to die. He could feel, taste, smell, and see everything with an instant still intensity, the animate171 fixation of a vision seen instantly, fixed for ever in the mind of him who sees it, and sense the clumped172 dusty autumn masses of the trees that bordered the tracks upon the left, and smell the thick exciting hot tarred caulking173 of the tracks, the dry warmth and good worn wooden smell of the powerful railway ties, and see the dull rusty174 red, the gaping175 emptiness and joy of a freight car, its rough floor whitened with soft siltings of thick flour, drawn in upon a spur of rusty track behind a warehouse176 of raw concrete blocks, and see with sudden desolation, the warehouse flung down rawly, newly, there among the hot, humid, spermy, nameless, thick-leaved field-growth of the South.
Then the locomotive drew in upon them, loomed177 enormously above them, and slowly swept by them with a terrific drive of eight-locked pistoned wheels, all higher than their heads, a savage furnace-flare of heat, a hard hose-thick hiss178 of steam, a moment’s vision of a lean old head, an old gloved hand of cunning on the throttle179, a glint of demon180 hawk-eyes fixed for ever on the rails, a huge tangle71 of gauges181, levers, valves, and throttles182, and the goggled183 blackened face of the fireman, lit by an intermittent184 hell of flame, as he bent185 and swayed with rhythmic186 swing of laden187 shovel188 at his furnace doors.
The locomotive passed above them, darkening the sunlight from their faces, engulfing189 them at once and filling them with terror, drawing the souls out through their mouths with the God-head of its instant absoluteness, and leaving them there, emptied, frightened, fixed for ever, a cluster of huddled190 figures, a bough191 of small white staring faces, upturned, silent, and submissive, small, lonely, and afraid.
Then as the heavy rust-black coaches rumbled192 past, and the wheels ground slowly to a halt, the boy could see his mother’s white stunned193 face beside him, the naked startled innocence of her eyes, and feel her rough worn clasp upon his arm, and hear her startled voice, full of apprehension194, terror, and surprise, as she said sharply:
“Hah? What say? Is this his train? I thought —”
It was his train and it had come to take him to the strange and secret heart of the great North that he had never known, but whose austere195 and lonely image, whose frozen heat and glacial fire, and dark stern beauty had blazed in his vision since he was a child. For he had dreamed and hungered for the proud unknown North with that wild ecstasy196, that intolerable and wordless joy of longing197 and desire, which only a Southerner can feel. With a heart of fire, a brain possessed198, a spirit haunted by the strange, secret and unvisited magic of the proud North, he had always known that some day he should find it — his heart’s hope and his father’s country, the lost but unforgotten half of his own soul — and take it for his own.
And now that day had come, and these two images — call them rather lights and weathers of man’s soul — of the world-far, lost and lonely South, and the fierce, the splendid, strange and secret North were swarming199 like a madness through his blood. And just as he had seen a thousand images of the buried and silent South which he had known all his life, so now he had a vision of the proud fierce North with all its shining cities, and its tides of life. He saw the rocky sweetness of its soil and its green loveliness, and he knew its numb soft prescience, its entrail-stirring ecstasy of coming snow, its smell of harbours and its traffic of proud ships.
He could not utter what he wished to say and yet the wild and powerful music of those two images kept swelling200 in him and it seemed that the passion of their song must burst his heart, explode the tenement201 of bright blood and agony in which they surged, and tear the sinews of his life asunder202 unless he found some means to utter them.
But no words came. He only knew the image of man’s loneliness, a feeling of sorrow, desolation, and wild mournful secret joy, longing and desire, as sultry, moveless and mysterious in its slow lust88 as the great rivers of the South themselves. And at the same moment that he felt this wild and mournful sorrow, the slow, hot, secret pulsings of desire, and breathed the heavy and mysterious fragrance203 of the lost South again, he felt, suddenly and terribly, its wild strange pull, the fatal absoluteness of its world-lost resignation.
Then, with a sudden feeling of release, a realization204 of the incredible escape that now impended205 for him, he knew that he was waiting for the train, and that the great life of the North, the road to freedom, solitude206 and the enchanted207 promise of the golden cities was now before him. Like a dream made real, a magic come to life, he knew that in another hour he would be speeding worldward, lifeward, Northward208 out of the enchanted, time-far hills, out of the dark heart and mournful mystery of the South for ever.
And as that overwhelming knowledge came to him, a song of triumph, joy, and victory so savage and unutterable, that he could no longer hold it in his heart was torn from his lips in a bestial209 cry of fury, pain, and ecstasy. He struck his arms out in the shining air for loss, for agony, for joy. The whole earth reeled about him in a kaleidoscopic210 blur211 of shining rail, massed heavy greens, and white empetalled faces of the staring people.
And suddenly he was standing there among his people on the platform of the little station. All things and shapes on earth swam back into their proper shape again, and he could hear his mother’s voice, the broken clatter212 of the telegraph, and see, there on the tracks, the blunt black snout, the short hard blasts of steam from its squat funnel, the imminent213 presence, the enormous bigness of the train.
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1
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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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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6
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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7
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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8
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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tribal
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| adj.部族的，种族的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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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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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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flexibility
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| n.柔韧性，弹性，（光的）折射性，灵活性 | |
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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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30
mobility
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| n.可动性，变动性，情感不定 | |
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31
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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32
gene
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| n.遗传因子，基因 | |
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33
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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34
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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35
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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36
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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37
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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38
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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39
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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40
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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41
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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42
ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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43
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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44
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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45
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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46
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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47
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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48
pucker
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| v.撅起，使起皱；n.（衣服上的）皱纹，褶子 | |
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49
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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50
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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51
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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52
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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53
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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54
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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55
derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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56
prodding
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| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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57
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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58
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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59
derisively
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| adv. 嘲笑地，嘲弄地 | |
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60
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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61
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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62
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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63
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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64
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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65
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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66
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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67
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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68
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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69
lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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70
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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71
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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72
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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73
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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74
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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75
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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76
guffaw
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| n.哄笑；突然的大笑 | |
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77
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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78
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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79
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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80
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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81
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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82
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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83
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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84
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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85
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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86
viperous
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| adj.有毒的，阴险的 | |
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87
illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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88
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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89
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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90
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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91
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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92
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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93
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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94
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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95
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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97
kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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98
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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99
elk
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| n.麋鹿 | |
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100
sincerity
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|
| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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101
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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102
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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103
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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104
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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105
flicking
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的现在分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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106
engulfed
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|
| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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108
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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109
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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110
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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111
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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112
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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113
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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115
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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116
wastrel
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| n.浪费者；废物 | |
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117
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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118
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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119
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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120
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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121
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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124
guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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125
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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126
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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127
delta
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| n.（流的）角洲 | |
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128
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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129
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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130
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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131
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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132
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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133
attentiveness
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| [医]注意 | |
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134
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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135
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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137
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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138
weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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139
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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140
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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141
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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142
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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143
omniscience
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| n.全知，全知者，上帝 | |
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144
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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145
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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146
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
portent
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| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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148
prodded
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| v.刺，戳( prod的过去式和过去分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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149
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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150
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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151
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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152
maniacs
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| n.疯子（maniac的复数形式） | |
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153
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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154
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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155
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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156
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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157
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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158
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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159
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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160
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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161
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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162
placating
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| v.安抚，抚慰，使平静( placate的现在分词 ) | |
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163
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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164
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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165
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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166
funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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167
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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168
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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169
poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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170
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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171
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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172
clumped
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| adj.[医]成群的v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的过去式和过去分词 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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173
caulking
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| n.堵缝；敛缝；捻缝；压紧v.堵（船的）缝( caulk的现在分词 )；泥…的缝；填塞；使不漏水 | |
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174
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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175
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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176
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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177
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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178
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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179
throttle
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| n.节流阀，节气阀，喉咙；v.扼喉咙，使窒息，压 | |
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180
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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181
gauges
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| n.规格( gauge的名词复数 )；厚度；宽度；标准尺寸v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的第三人称单数 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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182
throttles
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| n.控制油、气流的阀门( throttle的名词复数 )；喉咙，气管v.扼杀( throttle的第三人称单数 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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183
goggled
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| adj.戴护目镜的v.睁大眼睛瞪视， （惊讶的）转动眼珠( goggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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185
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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186
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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187
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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188
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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189
engulfing
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| adj.吞噬的v.吞没，包住( engulf的现在分词 ) | |
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190
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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191
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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192
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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193
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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194
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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195
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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196
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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197
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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198
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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199
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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200
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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201
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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202
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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203
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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204
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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205
impended
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| v.进行威胁，即将发生( impend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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207
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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208
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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209
bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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210
kaleidoscopic
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| adj.千变万化的 | |
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211
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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212
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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213
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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