My destination was in a by-street in a mean, rickety building; “The Franklin H. Dodge4 Steam Printing Company” appeared upon its front, and in characters of greater freshness, so as to suggest recent conversion5, the watch-cry, “White Labour Only.” In the office, in a dusty pen, Jim sat alone before a table. A wretched change had overtaken him in clothes, body, and bearing; he looked sick and shabby; he who had once rejoiced in his day’s employment, like a horse among pastures, now sat staring on a column of accounts, idly chewing a pen, at times heavily sighing, the picture of inefficiency6 and inattention. He was sunk deep in a painful reverie; he neither saw nor heard me; and I stood and watched him unobserved. I had a sudden vain relenting. Repentance8 bludgeoned me. As I had predicted to Nares, I stood and kicked myself. Here was I come home again, my honour saved; there was my friend in want of rest, nursing, and a generous diet; and I asked myself with Falstaff, “What is in that word honour? what is that honour?” and, like Falstaff, I told myself that it was air.
“Jim!” said I.
“Loudon!” he gasped9, and jumped from his chair and stood shaking.
The next moment I was over the barrier, and we were hand in hand.
“My poor old man!” I cried.
“Thank God, you’re home at last!” he gulped10, and kept patting my shoulder with his hand.
“I’ve no good news for you, Jim!” said I.
“You’ve come — that’s the good news that I want,” he replied. “O, how I’ve longed for you, Loudon!”
“I couldn’t do what you wrote me,” I said, lowering my voice. “The creditors11 have it all. I couldn’t do it.”
“Ssh!” returned Jim. “I was crazy when wrote. I could never have looked Mamie in the face if we had done it. O, Loudon, what a gift that woman is! You think you know something of life: you just don’t know anything. It’s the GOODNESS of the woman, it’s a revelation!”
“That’s all right,” said I. “That’s how I hoped to hear you, Jim.”
“And so the Flying Scud13 was a fraud,” he resumed. “I didn’t quite understand your letter, but I made out that.”
“Fraud is a mild term for it,” said I. “The creditors will never believe what fools we were. And that reminds me,” I continued, rejoicing in the transition, “how about the bankruptcy14?”
“You were lucky to be out of that,” answered Jim, shaking his head; “you were lucky not to see the papers. The Occidental called me a fifth-rate Kerbstone broker15 with water on the brain; another said I was a tree-frog that had got into the same meadow with Longhurst, and had blown myself out till I went pop. It was rough on a man in his honeymoon16; so was what they said about my looks, and what I had on, and the way I perspired17. But I braced18 myself up with the Flying Scud. How did it exactly figure out anyway? I don’t seem to catch on to that story, Loudon.”
“The devil you don’t!” thinks I to myself; and then aloud: “You see we had neither one of us good luck. I didn’t do much more than cover current expenses; and you got floored immediately. How did we come to go so soon?”
“Well, we’ll have to have a talk over all this,” said Jim with a sudden start. “I should be getting to my books; and I guess you had better go up right away to Mamie. She’s at Speedy’s. She expects you with impatience19. She regards you in the light of a favourite brother, Loudon.”
Any scheme was welcome which allowed me to postpone20 the hour of explanation, and avoid (were it only for a breathing space) the topic of the Flying Scud. I hastened accordingly to Bush Street. Mrs. Speedy, already rejoicing in the return of a spouse21, hailed me with acclamation. “And it’s beautiful you’re looking, Mr. Dodd, my dear,” she was kind enough to say. “And a miracle they naygur waheenies let ye lave the oilands. I have my suspicions of Shpeedy,” she added, roguishly. “Did ye see him after the naygresses now?”
I gave Speedy an unblemished character.
“The one of ye will niver bethray the other,” said the playful dame22, and ushered23 me into a bare room, where Mamie sat working a type-writer.
I was touched by the cordiality of her greeting. With the prettiest gesture in the world she gave me both her hands; wheeled forth24 a chair; and produced, from a cupboard, a tin of my favourite tobacco, and a book of my exclusive cigarette papers.
“There!” she cried; “you see, Mr. Loudon, we were all prepared for you; the things were bought the very day you sailed.”
I imagined she had always intended me a pleasant welcome; but the certain fervour of sincerity25, which I could not help remarking, flowed from an unexpected source. Captain Nares, with a kindness for which I can never be sufficiently26 grateful, had stolen a moment from his occupations, driven to call on Mamie, and drawn27 her a generous picture of my prowess at the wreck28. She was careful not to breathe a word of this interview, till she had led me on to tell my adventures for myself.
“Ah! Captain Nares was better,” she cried, when I had done. “From your account, I have only learned one new thing, that you are modest as well as brave.”
I cannot tell with what sort of disclamation I sought to reply.
“It is of no use,” said Mamie. “I know a hero. And when I heard of you working all day like a common labourer, with your hands bleeding and your nails broken — and how you told the captain to ‘crack on’ (I think he said) in the storm, when he was terrified himself — and the danger of that horrid29 mutiny”— (Nares had been obligingly dipping his brush in earthquake and eclipse)—“and how it was all done, in part at least, for Jim and me — I felt we could never say how we admired and thanked you.”
“Mamie,” I cried, “don’t talk of thanks; it is not a word to be used between friends. Jim and I have been prosperous together; now we shall be poor together. We’ve done our best, and that’s all that need be said. The next thing is for me to find a situation, and send you and Jim up country for a long holiday in the redwoods — for a holiday Jim has got to have.”
“Jim can’t take your money, Mr. Loudon,” said Mamie.
“Jim?” cried I. “He’s got to. Didn’t I take his?”
Presently after, Jim himself arrived, and before he had yet done mopping his brow, he was at me with the accursed subject. “Now, Loudon,” said he, “here we are all together, the day’s work done and the evening before us; just start in with the whole story.”
“One word on business first,” said I, speaking from the lips outward, and meanwhile (in the private apartments of my brain) trying for the thousandth time to find some plausible31 arrangement of my story. “I want to have a notion how we stand about the bankruptcy.”
“O, that’s ancient history,” cried Jim. “We paid seven cents, and a wonder we did as well. The receiver ——” (methought a spasm32 seized him at the name of this official, and he broke off). “But it’s all past and done with anyway; and what I want to get at is the facts about the wreck. I don’t seem to understand it; appears to me like as there was something underneath33.”
“There was nothing IN it, anyway,” I said, with a forced laugh.
“That’s what I want to judge of,” returned Jim.
“How the mischief34 is it I can never keep you to that bankruptcy? It looks as if you avoided it,” said I— for a man in my situation, with unpardonable folly35.
“Don’t it look a little as if you were trying to avoid the wreck?” asked Jim.
It was my own doing; there was no retreat. “My dear fellow, if you make a point of it, here goes!” said I, and launched with spurious gaiety into the current of my tale. I told it with point and spirit; described the island and the wreck, mimicked36 Anderson and the Chinese, maintained the suspense37. . . . My pen has stumbled on the fatal word. I maintained the suspense so well that it was never relieved; and when I stopped — I dare not say concluded, where there was no conclusion — I found Jim and Mamie regarding me with surprise.
“Well?” said Jim.
“Well, that’s all,” said I.
“But how do you explain it?” he asked.
“I can’t explain it,” said I.
Mamie wagged her head ominously38.
“But, great Caesar’s ghost! the money was offered!” cried Jim. “It won’t do, Loudon; it’s nonsense, on the face of it! I don’t say but what you and Nares did your best; I’m sure, of course, you did; but I do say, you got fooled. I say the stuff is in that ship to-day, and I say I mean to get it.”
“There is nothing in the ship, I tell you, but old wood and iron!” said I.
“You’ll see,” said Jim. “Next time I go myself. I’ll take Mamie for the trip; Longhurst won’t refuse me the expense of a schooner40. You wait till I get the searching of her.”
“But you can’t search her!” cried I. “She’s burned.”
“Burned!” cried Mamie, starting a little from the attitude of quiescent41 capacity in which she had hitherto sat to hear me, her hands folded in her lap.
There was an appreciable42 pause.
“I beg your pardon, Loudon,” began Jim at last, “but why in snakes did you burn her?”
“It was an idea of Nares’s,” said I.
“This is certainly the strangest circumstance of all,” observed Mamie.
“I must say, Loudon, it does seem kind of unexpected,” added Jim. “It seems kind of crazy even. What did you — what did Nares expect to gain by burning her?”
“I don’t know; it didn’t seem to matter; we had got all there was to get,” said I.
“That’s the very point,” cried Jim. “It was quite plain you hadn’t.”
“What made you so sure?” asked Mamie.
“How can I tell you?” I cried. “We had been all through her. We WERE sure; that’s all that I can say.”
“I begin to think you were,” she returned, with a significant emphasis.
Jim hurriedly intervened. “What I don’t quite make out, Loudon, is that you don’t seem to appreciate the peculiarities43 of the thing,” said he. “It doesn’t seem to have struck you same as it does me.”
“Pshaw! why go on with this?” cried Mamie, suddenly rising. “Mr. Dodd is not telling us either what he thinks or what he knows.”
“Mamie!” cried Jim.
“You need not be concerned for his feelings, James; he is not concerned for yours,” returned the lady. “He dare not deny it, besides. And this is not the first time he has practised reticence44. Have you forgotten that he knew the address, and did not tell it you until that man had escaped?”
Jim turned to me pleadingly — we were all on our feet. “Loudon,” he said, “you see Mamie has some fancy; and I must say there’s just a sort of a shadow of an excuse; for it IS bewildering — even to me, Loudon, with my trained business intelligence. For God’s sake, clear it up.”
“This serves me right,” said I. “I should not have tried to keep you in the dark; I should have told you at first that I was pledged to secrecy45; I should have asked you to trust me in the beginning. It is all I can do now. There is more of the story, but it concerns none of us, and my tongue is tied. I have given my word of honour. You must trust me and try to forgive me.”
“I daresay I am very stupid, Mr. Dodd,” began Mamie, with an alarming sweetness, “but I thought you went upon this trip as my husband’s representative and with my husband’s money? You tell us now that you are pledged, but I should have thought you were pledged first of all to James. You say it does not concern us; we are poor people, and my husband is sick, and it concerns us a great deal to understand how we come to have lost our money, and why our representative comes back to us with nothing. You ask that we should trust you; you do not seem to understand; the question we are asking ourselves is whether we have not trusted you too much.”
“I do not ask you to trust me,” I replied. “I ask Jim. He knows me.”
“You think you can do what you please with James; you trust to his affection, do you not? And me, I suppose, you do not consider,” said Mamie. “But it was perhaps an unfortunate day for you when we were married, for I at least am not blind. The crew run away, the ship is sold for a great deal of money, you know that man’s address and you conceal46 it, you do not find what you were sent to look for, and yet you burn the ship; and now, when we ask explanations, you are pledged to secrecy! But I am pledged to no such thing; I will not stand by in silence and see my sick and ruined husband betrayed by his condescending47 friend. I will give you the truth for once. Mr. Dodd, you have been bought and sold.”
“Mamie,” cried Jim, “no more of this! It’s me you’re striking; it’s only me you hurt. You don’t know, you cannot understand these things. Why, to-day, if it hadn’t been for Loudon, I couldn’t have looked you in the face. He saved my honesty.”
“I have heard plenty of this talk before,” she replied. “You are a sweet-hearted fool, and I love you for it. But I am a clear- headed woman; my eyes are open, and I understand this man’s hypocrisy48. Did he not come here to-day and pretend he would take a situation — pretend he would share his hard-earned wages with us until you were well? Pretend! It makes me furious! His wages! a share of his wages! That would have been your pittance49, that would have been your share of the Flying Scud — you who worked and toiled50 for him when he was a beggar in the streets of Paris. But we do not want your charity; thank God, I can work for my own husband! See what it is to have obliged a gentleman. He would let you pick him up when he was begging; he would stand and look on, and let you black his shoes, and sneer51 at you. For you were always sneering52 at my James; you always looked down upon him in your heart, you know it!” She turned back to Jim. “And now when he is rich,” she began, and then swooped53 again on me. “For you are rich, I dare you to deny it; I defy you to look me in the face and try to deny that you are rich — rich with our money — my husband’s money ——”
Heaven knows to what a height she might have risen, being, by this time, bodily whirled away in her own hurricane of words. Heart-sickness, a black depression, a treacherous54 sympathy with my assailant, pity unutterable for poor Jim, already filled, divided, and abashed56 my spirit. Flight seemed the only remedy; and making a private sign to Jim, as if to ask permission, I slunk from the unequal field.
I was but a little way down the street, when I was arrested by the sound of some one running, and Jim’s voice calling me by name. He had followed me with a letter which had been long awaiting my return.
I took it in a dream. “This has been a devil of a business,” said I.
“Don’t think hard of Mamie,” he pleaded. “It’s the way she’s made; it’s her high-toned loyalty57. And of course I know it’s all right. I know your sterling58 character; but you didn’t, somehow, make out to give us the thing straight, Loudon. Anybody might have — I mean it — I mean ——”
“Never mind what you mean, my poor Jim,” said I. “She’s a gallant59 little woman and a loyal wife: and I thought her splendid. My story was as fishy60 as the devil. I’ll never think the less of either her or you.”
“It’ll blow over; it must blow over,” said he.
“It never can,” I returned, sighing: “and don’t you try to make it! Don’t name me, unless it’s with an oath. And get home to her right away. Good by, my best of friends. Good by, and God bless you. We shall never meet again.”
“O Loudon, that we should live to say such words!” he cried.
I had no views on life, beyond an occasional impulse to commit suicide, or to get drunk, and drifted down the street, semi- conscious, walking apparently61 on air, in the light-headedness of grief. I had money in my pocket, whether mine or my creditors’ I had no means of guessing; and, the Poodle Dog lying in my path, I went mechanically in and took a table. A waiter attended me, and I suppose I gave my orders; for presently I found myself, with a sudden return of consciousness, beginning dinner. On the white cloth at my elbow lay the letter, addressed in a clerk’s hand, and bearing an English stamp and the Edinburgh postmark. A bowl of bouillon and a glass of wine awakened62 in one corner of my brain (where all the rest was in mourning, the blinds down as for a funeral) a faint stir of curiosity; and while I waited the next course, wondering the while what I had ordered, I opened and began to read the epoch63 -making document.
“DEAR SIR: I am charged with the melancholy64 duty of announcing to you the death of your excellent grandfather, Mr. Alexander Loudon, on the 17th ult. On Sunday the 13th, he went to church as usual in the forenoon, and stopped on his way home, at the corner of Princes Street, in one of our seasonable east winds, to talk with an old friend. The same evening acute bronchitis declared itself; from the first, Dr. M’Combie anticipated a fatal result, and the old gentleman appeared to have no illusion as to his own state. He repeatedly assured me it was ‘by’ with him now; ‘and high time, too,’ he once added with characteristic asperity65. He was not in the least changed on the approach of death: only (what I am sure must be very grateful to your feelings) he seemed to think and speak even more kindly66 than usual of yourself: referring to you as ‘Jeannie’s yin,’ with strong expressions of regard. ‘He was the only one I ever liket of the hale jing-bang,’ was one of his expressions; and you will be glad to know that he dwelt particularly on the dutiful respect you had always displayed in your relations. The small codicil67, by which he bequeaths you his Molesworth and other professional works, was added (you will observe) on the day before his death; so that you were in his thoughts until the end. I should say that, though rather a trying patient, he was most tenderly nursed by your uncle, and your cousin, Miss Euphemia. I enclose a copy of the testament68, by which you will see that you share equally with Mr. Adam, and that I hold at your disposal a sum nearly approaching seventeen thousand pounds. I beg to congratulate you on this considerable acquisition, and expect your orders, to which I shall hasten to give my best attention. Thinking that you might desire to return at once to this country, and not knowing how you may be placed, I enclose a credit for six hundred pounds. Please sign the accompanying slip, and let me have it at your earliest convenience.
“I am, dear sir, yours truly,
“W. RUTHERFORD GREGG.”
“God bless the old gentleman!” I thought; “and for that matter God bless Uncle Adam! and my cousin Euphemia! and Mr. Gregg!” I had a vision of that grey old life now brought to an end —“and high time too”— a vision of those Sabbath streets alternately vacant and filled with silent people; of the babel of the bells, the long-drawn psalmody, the shrewd sting of the east wind, the hollow, echoing, dreary69 house to which “Ecky” had returned with the hand of death already on his shoulder; a vision, too, of the long, rough country lad, perhaps a serious courtier of the lasses in the hawthorn70 den7, perhaps a rustic71 dancer on the green, who had first earned and answered to that harsh diminutive72. And I asked myself if, on the whole, poor Ecky had succeeded in life; if the last state of that man were not on the whole worse than the first; and the house in Randolph Crescent a less admirable dwelling73 than the hamlet where he saw the day and grew to manhood. Here was a consolatory74 thought for one who was himself a failure.
Yes, I declare the word came in my mind; and all the while, in another partition of the brain, I was glowing and singing for my new-found opulence75. The pile of gold — four thousand two hundred and fifty double eagles, seventeen thousand ugly sovereigns, twenty-one thousand two hundred and fifty Napoleons — danced, and rang and ran molten, and lit up life with their effulgence76, in the eye of fancy. Here were all things made plain to me: Paradise — Paris, I mean — Regained77, Carthew protected, Jim restored, the creditors . . .
“The creditors!” I repeated, and sank back benumbed. It was all theirs to the last farthing: my grandfather had died too soon to save me.
I must have somewhere a rare vein78 of decision. In that revolutionary moment, I found myself prepared for all extremes except the one: ready to do anything, or to go anywhere, so long as I might save my money. At the worst, there was flight, flight to some of those blest countries where the serpent, extradition79, has not yet entered in.
On no condition is extradition
Allowed in Callao!
— the old lawless words haunted me; and I saw myself hugging my gold in the company of such men as had once made and sung them, in the rude and bloody80 wharfside drinking-shops of Chili81 and Peru. The run of my ill-luck, the breach82 of my old friendship, this bubble fortune flaunted83 for a moment in my eyes and snatched again, had made me desperate and (in the expressive84 vulgarism) ugly. To drink vile85 spirits among vile companions by the flare86 of a pine-torch; to go burthened with my furtive87 treasure in a belt; to fight for it knife in hand, rolling on a clay floor; to flee perpetually in fresh ships and to be chased through the sea from isle88 to isle, seemed, in my then frame of mind, a welcome series of events.
That was for the worst; but it began to dawn slowly on my mind that there was yet a possible better. Once escaped, once safe in Callao, I might approach my creditors with a good grace; and properly handled by a cunning agent, it was just possible they might accept some easy composition. The hope recalled me to the bankruptcy. It was strange, I reflected: often as I had questioned Jim, he had never obliged me with an answer. In his haste for news about the wreck, my own no less legitimate89 curiosity had gone disappointed. Hateful as the thought was to me, I must return at once and find out where I stood.
I left my dinner still unfinished, paying for the whole, of course, and tossing the waiter a gold piece. I was reckless; I knew not what was mine and cared not: I must take what I could get and give as I was able; to rob and to squander90 seemed the complementary parts of my new destiny. I walked up Bush Street, whistling, brazening myself to confront Mamie in the first place, and the world at large and a certain visionary judge upon a bench in the second. Just outside, I stopped and lighted a cigar to give me greater countenance91; and puffing92 this and wearing what (I am sure) was a wretched assumption of braggadocio93, I reappeared on the scene of my disgrace.
My friend and his wife were finishing a poor meal — rags of old mutton, the remainder cakes from breakfast eaten cold, and a starveling pot of coffee.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pinkerton,” said I. “Sorry to inflict94 my presence where it cannot be desired; but there is a piece of business necessary to be discussed.”
“Pray do not consider me,” said Mamie, rising, and she sailed into the adjoining bedroom.
Jim watched her go and shook his head; he looked miserably95 old and ill.
“What is it, now?” he asked.
“Perhaps you remember you answered none of my questions,” said I.
“Your questions?” faltered96 Jim.
“Even so, Jim. My questions,” I repeated. “I put questions as well as yourself; and however little I may have satisfied Mamie with my answers, I beg to remind you that you gave me none at all.”
“You mean about the bankruptcy?” asked Jim.
I nodded.
He writhed97 in his chair. “The straight truth is, I was ashamed,” he said. “I was trying to dodge you. I’ve been playing fast and loose with you, Loudon; I’ve deceived you from the first, I blush to own it. And here you came home and put the very question I was fearing. Why did we bust98 so soon? Your keen business eye had not deceived you. That’s the point, that’s my shame; that’s what killed me this afternoon when Mamie was treating you so, and my conscience was telling me all the time, Thou art the man.”
“What was it, Jim?” I asked.
“What I had been at all the time, Loudon,” he wailed99; “and I don’t know how I’m to look you in the face and say it, after my duplicity. It was stocks,” he added in a whisper.
“And you were afraid to tell me that!” I cried. “You poor, old, cheerless dreamer! what would it matter what you did or didn’t? Can’t you see we’re doomed100? And anyway, that’s not my point. It’s how I stand that I want to know. There is a particular reason. Am I clear? Have I a certificate, or what have I to do to get one? And when will it be dated? You can’t think what hangs by it!”
“That’s the worst of all,” said Jim, like a man in a dream, “I can’t see how to tell him!”
“What do you mean?” I cried, a small pang101 of terror at my heart.
“I’m afraid I sacrificed you, Loudon,” he said, looking at me pitifully.
“Sacrificed me?” I repeated. “How? What do you mean by sacrifice?”
“I know it’ll shock your delicate self-respect,” he said; “but what was I to do? Things looked so bad. The receiver ——” (as usual, the name stuck in his throat, and he began afresh). “There was a lot of talk; the reporters were after me already; there was the trouble and all about the Mexican business; and I got scared right out, and I guess I lost my head. You weren’t there, you see, and that was my temptation.”
I did not know how long he might thus beat about the bush with dreadful hintings, and I was already beside myself with terror. What had he done? I saw he had been tempted102; I knew from his letters that he was in no condition to resist. How had he sacrificed the absent?
“Jim,” I said, “you must speak right out. I’ve got all that I can carry.”
“Well,” he said —“I know it was a liberty — I made it out you were no business man, only a stone-broke painter; that half the time you didn’t know anything anyway, particularly money and accounts. I said you never could be got to understand whose was whose. I had to say that because of some entries in the books ——”
“For God’s sake,” I cried, “put me out of this agony! What did you accuse me of?”
“Accuse you of?” repeated Jim. “Of what I’m telling you. And there being no deed of partnership103, I made out you were only a kind of clerk that I called a partner just to give you taffy; and so I got you ranked a creditor12 on the estate for your wages and the money you had lent. And ——”
I believe I reeled. “A creditor!” I roared; “a creditor! I’m not in the bankruptcy at all?”
“No,” said Jim. “I know it was a liberty ——”
“O, damn your liberty! read that,” I cried, dashing the letter before him on the table, “and call in your wife, and be done with eating this truck “— as I spoke104, I slung105 the cold mutton in the empty grate —“and let’s all go and have a champagne106 supper. I’ve dined — I’m sure I don’t remember what I had; I’d dine again ten scores of times upon a night like this. Read it, you blaying ass55! I’m not insane. Here, Mamie,” I continued, opening the bedroom door, “come out and make it up with me, and go and kiss your husband; and I’ll tell you what, after the supper, let’s go to some place where there’s a band, and I’ll waltz with you till sunrise.”
“What does it all mean?” cried Jim.
“It means we have a champagne supper to-night, and all go to Napa Valley or to Monterey to-morrow,” said I. “Mamie, go and get your things on; and you, Jim, sit down right where you are, take a sheet of paper, and tell Franklin Dodge to go to Texas. Mamie, you were right, my dear; I was rich all the time, and didn’t know it.”
Chapter XIX.
Travels with a Shyster.
The absorbing and disastrous108 adventure of the Flying Scud was now quite ended; we had dashed into these deep waters and we had escaped again to starve, we had been ruined and were saved, had quarrelled and made up; there remained nothing but to sing Te Deum, draw a line, and begin on a fresh page of my unwritten diary. I do not pretend that I recovered all I had lost with Mamie; it would have been more than I had merited; and I had certainly been more uncommunicative than became either the partner or the friend. But she accepted the position handsomely; and during the week that I now passed with them, both she and Jim had the grace to spare me questions. It was to Calistoga that we went; there was some rumour109 of a Napa land-boom at the moment, the possibility of stir attracted Jim, and he informed me he would find a certain joy in looking on, much as Napoleon on St. Helena took a pleasure to read military works. The field of his ambition was quite closed; he was done with action; and looked forward to a ranch110 in a mountain dingle, a patch of corn, a pair of kine, a leisurely111 and contemplative age in the green shade of forests. “Just let me get down on my back in a hayfield,” said he, “and you’ll find there’s no more snap to me than that much putty.”
And for two days the perfervid being actually rested. The third, he was observed in consultation112 with the local editor, and owned he was in two minds about purchasing the press and paper. “It’s a kind of a hold for an idle man,” he said, pleadingly; “and if the section was to open up the way it ought to, there might be dollars in the thing.” On the fourth day he was gone till dinner-time alone; on the fifth we made a long picnic drive to the fresh field of enterprise; and the sixth was passed entirely113 in the preparation of prospectuses114. The pioneer of McBride City was already upright and self-reliant as of yore; the fire rekindled115 in his eye, the ring restored to his voice; a charger sniffing116 battle and saying ha-ha, among the spears. On the seventh morning we signed a deed of partnership, for Jim would not accept a dollar of my money otherwise; and having once more engaged myself — or that mortal part of me, my purse — among the wheels of his machinery117, I returned alone to San Francisco and took quarters in the Palace Hotel.
The same night I had Nares to dinner. His sunburnt face, his queer and personal strain of talk, recalled days that were scarce over and that seemed already distant. Through the music of the band outside, and the chink and clatter118 of the dining-room, it seemed to me as if I heard the foaming119 of the surf and the voices of the sea-birds about Midway Island. The bruises120 on our hands were not yet healed; and there we sat, waited on by elaborate darkies, eating pompano and drinking iced champagne.
“Think of our dinners on the Norah, captain, and then oblige me by looking round the room for contrast.”
He took the scene in slowly. “Yes, it is like a dream,” he said: “like as if the darkies were really about as big as dimes122; and a great big scuttle123 might open up there, and Johnson stick in a great big head and shoulders, and cry, ‘Eight bells!’— and the whole thing vanish.”
“Well, it’s the other thing that has done that,” I replied. “It’s all bygone now, all dead and buried. Amen! say I.”
“I don’t know that, Mr. Dodd; and to tell you the fact, I don’t believe it,” said Nares. “There’s more Flying Scud in the oven; and the baker’s name, I take it, is Bellairs. He tackled me the day we came in: sort of a razee of poor old humanity — jury clothes — full new suit of pimples124: knew him at once from your description. I let him pump me till I saw his game. He knows a good deal that we don’t know, a good deal that we do, and suspects the balance. There’s trouble brewing125 for somebody.”
I was surprised I had not thought of this before. Bellairs had been behind the scenes; he had known Dickson; he knew the flight of the crew; it was hardly possible but what he should suspect; it was certain if he suspected, that he would seek to trade on the suspicion. And sure enough, I was not yet dressed the next morning ere the lawyer was knocking at my door. I let him in, for I was curious; and he, after some ambiguous prolegomena, roundly proposed I should go shares with him.
“Shares in what?” I inquired.
“If you will allow me to clothe my idea in a somewhat vulgar form,” said he, “I might ask you, did you go to Midway for your health?”
“I don’t know that I did,” I replied.
“Similarly, Mr. Dodd, you may be sure I would never have taken the present step without influential126 grounds,” pursued the lawyer. “Intrusion is foreign to my character. But you and I, sir, are engaged on the same ends. If we can continue to work the thing in company, I place at your disposal my knowledge of the law and a considerable practice in delicate negotiations127 similar to this. Should you refuse to consent, you might find in me a formidable and”— he hesitated —“and to my own regret, perhaps a dangerous competitor.”
“Did you get this by heart?” I asked, genially128.
“I advise YOU to!” he said, with a sudden sparkle of temper and menace, instantly gone, instantly succeeded by fresh cringing129. “I assure you, sir, I arrive in the character of a friend; and I believe you underestimate my information. If I may instance an example, I am acquainted to the last dime121 with what you made (or rather lost), and I know you have since cashed a considerable draft on London.”
“What do you infer?” I asked.
“I know where that draft came from,” he cried, wincing130 back like one who has greatly dared, and instantly regrets the venture.
“So?” said I.
“You forget I was Mr. Dickson’s confidential131 agent,” he explained. “You had his address, Mr. Dodd. We were the only two that he communicated with in San Francisco. You see my deductions132 are quite obvious: you see how open and frank I deal with you, as I should wish to do with any gentleman with whom I was conjoined in business. You see how much I know; and it can scarcely escape your strong common-sense, how much better it would be if I knew all. You cannot hope to get rid of me at this time of day, I have my place in the affair, I cannot be shaken off; I am, if you will excuse a rather technical pleasantry, an encumbrance133 on the estate. The actual harm I can do, I leave you to valuate for yourself. But without going so far, Mr. Dodd, and without in any way inconveniencing myself, I could make things very uncomfortable. For instance, Mr. Pinkerton’s liquidation134. You and I know, sir — and you better than I— on what a large fund you draw. Is Mr. Pinkerton in the thing at all? It was you only who knew the address, and you were concealing135 it. Suppose I should communicate with Mr. Pinkerton ——”
“Look here!” I interrupted, “communicate with him (if you will permit me to clothe my idea in a vulgar shape) till you are blue in the face. There is only one person with whom I refuse to allow you to communicate further, and that is myself. Good morning.”
He could not conceal his rage, disappointment, and surprise; and in the passage (I have no doubt) was shaken by St. Vitus.
I was disgusted by this interview; it struck me hard to be suspected on all hands, and to hear again from this trafficker what I had heard already from Jim’s wife; and yet my strongest impression was different and might rather be described as an impersonal136 fear. There was something against nature in the man’s craven impudence137; it was as though a lamb had butted138 me; such daring at the hands of such a dastard139, implied unchangeable resolve, a great pressure of necessity, and powerful means. I thought of the unknown Carthew, and it sickened me to see this ferret on his trail.
Upon inquiry140 I found the lawyer was but just disbarred for some malpractice; and the discovery added excessively to my disquiet141. Here was a rascal142 without money or the means of making it, thrust out of the doors of his own trade, publicly shamed, and doubtless in a deuce of a bad temper with the universe. Here, on the other hand, was a man with a secret; rich, terrified, practically in hiding; who had been willing to pay ten thousand pounds for the bones of the Flying Scud. I slipped insensibly into a mental alliance with the victim; the business weighed on me; all day long, I was wondering how much the lawyer knew, how much he guessed, and when he would open his attack.
Some of these problems are unsolved to this day; others were soon made clear. Where he got Carthew’s name is still a mystery; perhaps some sailor on the Tempest, perhaps my own sea-lawyer served him for a tool; but I was actually at his elbow when he learned the address. It fell so. One evening, when I had an engagement and was killing143 time until the hour, I chanced to walk in the court of the hotel while the band played. The place was bright as day with the electric light; and I recognised, at some distance among the loiterers, the person of Bellairs in talk with a gentleman whose face appeared familiar. It was certainly some one I had seen, and seen recently; but who or where, I knew not. A porter standing144 hard by, gave me the necessary hint. The stranger was an English navy man, invalided145 home from Honolulu, where he had left his ship; indeed, it was only from the change of clothes and the effects of sickness, that I had not immediately recognised my friend and correspondent, Lieutenant146 Sebright.
The conjunction of these planets seeming ominous39, I drew near; but it seemed Bellairs had done his business; he vanished in the crowd, and I found my officer alone.
“Do you know whom you have been talking to, Mr. Sebright?” I began.
“No,” said he; “I don’t know him from Adam. Anything wrong?”
“He is a disreputable lawyer, recently disbarred,” said I. “I wish I had seen you in time. I trust you told him nothing about Carthew?”
He flushed to his ears. “I’m awfully147 sorry,” he said. “He seemed civil, and I wanted to get rid of him. It was only the address he asked.”
“And you gave it?” I cried.
“I’m really awfully sorry,” said Sebright. “I’m afraid I did.”
“God forgive you!” was my only comment, and I turned my back upon the blunderer.
The fat was in the fire now: Bellairs had the address, and I was the more deceived or Carthew would have news of him. So strong was this impression, and so painful, that the next morning I had the curiosity to pay the lawyer’s den a visit. An old woman was scrubbing the stair, and the board was down.
“Lawyer Bellairs?” said the old woman. “Gone East this morning. There’s Lawyer Dean next block up.”
I did not trouble Lawyer Dean, but walked slowly back to my hotel, ruminating148 as I went. The image of the old woman washing that desecrated149 stair had struck my fancy; it seemed that all the water-supply of the city and all the soap in the State would scarce suffice to cleanse150 it, it had been so long a clearing -house of dingy151 secrets and a factory of sordid152 fraud. And now the corner was untenanted; some judge, like a careful housewife, had knocked down the web, and the bloated spider was scuttling153 elsewhere after new victims. I had of late (as I have said) insensibly taken sides with Carthew; now when his enemy was at his heels, my interest grew more warm; and I began to wonder if I could not help. The drama of the Flying Scud was entering on a new phase. It had been singular from the first: it promised an extraordinary conclusion; and I, who had paid so much to learn the beginning, might pay a little more and see the end. I lingered in San Francisco, indemnifying myself after the hardships of the cruise, spending money, regretting it, continually promising154 departure for the morrow. Why not go indeed, and keep a watch upon Bellairs? If I missed him, there was no harm done, I was the nearer Paris. If I found and kept his trail, it was hard if I could not put some stick in his machinery, and at the worst I could promise myself interesting scenes and revelations.
In such a mixed humour, I made up what it pleases me to call my mind, and once more involved myself in the story of Carthew and the Flying Scud. The same night I wrote a letter of farewell to Jim, and one of anxious warning to Dr. Urquart begging him to set Carthew on his guard; the morrow saw me in the ferry-boat; and ten days later, I was walking the hurricane deck on the City of Denver. By that time my mind was pretty much made down again, its natural condition: I told myself that I was bound for Paris or Fontainebleau to resume the study of the arts; and I thought no more of Carthew or Bellairs, or only to smile at my own fondness. The one I could not serve, even if I wanted; the other I had no means of finding, even if I could have at all influenced him after he was found.
And for all that, I was close on the heels of an absurd adventure. My neighbour at table that evening was a ‘Frisco man whom I knew slightly. I found he had crossed the plains two days in front of me, and this was the first steamer that had left New York for Europe since his arrival. Two days before me meant a day before Bellairs; and dinner was scarce done before I was closeted with the purser.
“Bellairs?” he repeated. “Not in the saloon, I am sure. He may be in the second class. The lists are not made out, but — Hullo! ‘Harry155 D. Bellairs?’ That the name? He’s there right enough.”
And the next morning I saw him on the forward deck, sitting in a chair, a book in his hand, a shabby puma156 skin rug about his knees: the picture of respectable decay. Off and on, I kept him in my eye. He read a good deal, he stood and looked upon the sea, he talked occasionally with his neighbours, and once when a child fell he picked it up and soothed157 it. I damned him in my heart; the book, which I was sure he did not read — the sea, to which I was ready to take oath he was indifferent — the child, whom I was certain he would as lieve have tossed overboard — all seemed to me elements in a theatrical158 performance; and I made no doubt he was already nosing after the secrets of his fellow-passengers. I took no pains to conceal myself, my scorn for the creature being as strong as my disgust. But he never looked my way, and it was night before I learned he had observed me.
I was smoking by the engine-room door, for the air was a little sharp, when a voice rose close beside me in the darkness.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Dodd,” it said.
“That you, Bellairs?” I replied.
“A single word, sir. Your presence on this ship has no connection with our interview?” he asked. “You have no idea, Mr. Dodd, of returning upon your determination?”
“None,” said I; and then, seeing he still lingered, I was polite enough to add “Good evening;” at which he sighed and went away.
The next day, he was there again with the chair and the puma skin; read his book and looked at the sea with the same constancy; and though there was no child to be picked up, I observed him to attend repeatedly on a sick woman. Nothing fosters suspicion like the act of watching; a man spied upon can hardly blow his nose but we accuse him of designs; and I took an early opportunity to go forward and see the woman for myself. She was poor, elderly, and painfully plain; I stood abashed at the sight, felt I owed Bellairs amends160 for the injustice161 of my thoughts, and seeing him standing by the rail in his usual attitude of contemplation, walked up and addressed him by name.
“You seem very fond of the sea,” said I.
“I may really call it a passion, Mr. Dodd,” he replied. “And the tall cataract162 haunted me like a passion,” he quoted. “I never weary of the sea, sir. This is my first ocean voyage. I find it a glorious experience.” And once more my disbarred lawyer dropped into poetry: “Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll!”
Though I had learned the piece in my reading-book at school, I came into the world a little too late on the one hand — and I daresay a little too early on the other — to think much of Byron; and the sonorous163 verse, prodigiously164 well delivered, struck me with surprise.
“You are fond of poetry, too?” I asked.
“I am a great reader,” he replied. “At one time I had begun to amass165 quite a small but well selected library; and when that was scattered166, I still managed to preserve a few volumes — chiefly of pieces designed for recitation — which have been my travelling companions.”
“Is that one of them?” I asked, pointing to the volume in his hand.
“No, sir,” he replied, showing me a translation of the Sorrows of Werther, “that is a novel I picked up some time ago. It has afforded me great pleasure, though immoral168.”
“O, immoral!” cried I, indignant as usual at any complication of art and ethics169.
“Surely you cannot deny that, sir — if you know the book,” he said. “The passion is illicit170, although certainly drawn with a good deal of pathos171. It is not a work one could possibly put into the hands of a lady; which is to be regretted on all accounts, for I do not know how it may strike you; but it seems to me — as a depiction172, if I make myself clear — to rise high above its compeers — even famous compeers. Even in Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, or Hawthorne, the sentiment of love appears to me to be frequently done less justice to.”
“You are expressing a very general opinion,” said I.
“Is that so, indeed, sir?” he exclaimed, with unmistakable excitement. “Is the book well known? and who was GO-EATH? I am interested in that, because upon the title-page the usual initials are omitted, and it runs simply ‘by GO-EATH.’ Was he an author of distinction? Has he written other works?”
Such was our first interview, the first of many; and in all he showed the same attractive qualities and defects. His taste for literature was native and unaffected; his sentimentality, although extreme and a thought ridiculous, was plainly genuine. I wondered at my own innocent wonder. I knew that Homer nodded, that Caesar had compiled a jest-book, that Turner lived by preference the life of Puggy Booth, that Shelley made paper boats, and Wordsworth wore green spectacles! and with all this mass of evidence before me, I had expected Bellairs to be entirely of one piece, subdued173 to what he worked in, a spy all through. As I abominated174 the man’s trade, so I had expected to detest175 the man himself; and behold176, I liked him. Poor devil! he was essentially177 a man on wires, all sensibility and tremor178, brimful of a cheap poetry, not without parts, quite without courage. His boldness was despair; the gulf179 behind him thrust him on; he was one of those who might commit a murder rather than confess the theft of a postage-stamp. I was sure that his coming interview with Carthew rode his imagination like a nightmare; when the thought crossed his mind, I used to think I knew of it, and that the qualm appeared in his face visibly. Yet he would never flinch180: necessity stalking at his back, famine (his old pursuer) talking in his ear; and I used to wonder whether I most admired, or most despised, this quivering heroism181 for evil. The image that occurred to me after his visit was just; I had been butted by a lamb; and the phase of life that I was now studying might be called the Revolt of a Sheep.
It could be said of him that he had learned in sorrow what he taught in song — or wrong; and his life was that of one of his victims. He was born in the back parts of the State of New York; his father a farmer, who became subsequently bankrupt and went West. The lawyer and money-lender who had ruined this poor family seems to have conceived in the end a feeling of remorse182; he turned the father out indeed, but he offered, in compensation, to charge himself with one of the sons: and Harry, the fifth child and already sickly, was chosen to be left behind. He made himself useful in the office; picked up the scattered rudiments183 of an education; read right and left; attended and debated at the Young Men’s Christian184 Association; and in all his early years, was the model for a good story-book. His landlady’s daughter was his bane. He showed me her photograph; she was a big, handsome, dashing, dressy, vulgar hussy, without character, without tenderness, without mind, and (as the result proved) without virtue185. The sickly and timid boy was in the house; he was handy; when she was otherwise unoccupied, she used and played with him: Romeo and Cressida; till in that dreary life of a poor boy in a country town, she grew to be the light of his days and the subject of his dreams. He worked hard, like Jacob, for a wife; he surpassed his patron in sharp practice; he was made head clerk; and the same night, encouraged by a hundred freedoms, depressed186 by the sense of his youth and his infirmities, he offered marriage and was received with laughter. Not a year had passed, before his master, conscious of growing infirmities, took him for a partner; he proposed again; he was accepted; led two years of troubled married life; and awoke one morning to find his wife had run away with a dashing drummer, and had left him heavily in debt. The debt, and not the drummer, was supposed to be the cause of the hegira187; she had concealed188 her liabilities, they were on the point of bursting forth, she was weary of Bellairs; and she took the drummer as she might have taken a cab. The blow disabled her husband, his partner was dead; he was now alone in the business, for which he was no longer fit; the debts hampered189 him; bankruptcy followed; and he fled from city to city, falling daily into lower practice. It is to be considered that he had been taught, and had learned as a delightful190 duty, a kind of business whose highest merit is to escape the commentaries of the bench: that of the usurious lawyer in a county town. With this training, he was now shot, a penniless stranger, into the deeper gulfs of cities; and the result is scarce a thing to be surprised at.
“Have you heard of your wife again?” I asked.
He displayed a pitiful agitation191. “I am afraid you will think ill of me,” he said.
“Have you taken her back?” I asked.
“No, sir. I trust I have too much self-respect,” he answered, “and, at least, I was never tempted. She won’t come, she dislikes, she seems to have conceived a positive distaste for me, and yet I was considered an indulgent husband.”
“You are still in relations, then?” I asked.
“I place myself in your hands, Mr. Dodd,” he replied. “The world is very hard; I have found it bitter hard myself — bitter hard to live. How much worse for a woman, and one who has placed herself (by her own misconduct, I am far from denying that) in so unfortunate a position!”
“In short, you support her?” I suggested.
“I cannot deny it. I practically do,” he admitted. “It has been a mill-stone round my neck. But I think she is grateful. You can see for yourself.”
He handed me a letter in a sprawling192, ignorant hand, but written with violet ink on fine, pink paper with a monogram193. It was very foolishly expressed, and I thought (except for a few obvious cajoleries) very heartless and greedy in meaning. The writer said she had been sick, which I disbelieved; declared the last remittance194 was all gone in doctor’s bills, for which I took the liberty of substituting dress, drink, and monograms195; and prayed for an increase, which I could only hope had been denied her.
“I think she is really grateful?” he asked, with some eagerness, as I returned it.
“I daresay,” said I. “Has she any claim on you?”
“O no, sir. I divorced her,” he replied. “I have a very strong sense of self-respect in such matters, and I divorced her immediately.”
“What sort of life is she leading now?” I asked.
“I will not deceive you, Mr. Dodd. I do not know, I make a point of not knowing; it appears more dignified196. I have been very harshly criticised,” he added, sighing.
It will be seen that I had fallen into an ignominious197 intimacy198 with the man I had gone out to thwart199. My pity for the creature, his admiration200 for myself, his pleasure in my society, which was clearly unassumed, were the bonds with which I was fettered201; perhaps I should add, in honesty, my own ill- regulated interest in the phases of life and human character. The fact is (at least) that we spent hours together daily, and that I was nearly as much on the forward deck as in the saloon. Yet all the while I could never forget he was a shabby trickster, embarked202 that very moment in a dirty enterprise. I used to tell myself at first that our acquaintance was a stroke of art, and that I was somehow fortifying203 Carthew. I told myself, I say; but I was no such fool as to believe it, even then. In these circumstances I displayed the two chief qualities of my character on the largest scale — my helplessness and my instinctive204 love of procrastination205 — and fell upon a course of action so ridiculous that I blush when I recall it.
We reached Liverpool one forenoon, the rain falling thickly and insidiously206 on the filthy207 town. I had no plans, beyond a sensible unwillingness208 to let my rascal escape; and I ended by going to the same inn with him, dining with him, walking with him in the wet streets, and hearing with him in a penny gaff that venerable piece, The Ticket-of-Leave Man. It was one of his first visits to a theatre, against which places of entertainment he had a strong prejudice; and his innocent, pompous209 talk, innocent old quotations210, and innocent reverence211 for the character of Hawkshaw delighted me beyond relief. In charity to myself, I dwell upon and perhaps exaggerate my pleasures. I have need of all conceivable excuses, when I confess that I went to bed without one word upon the matter of Carthew, but not without having covenanted212 with my rascal for a visit to Chester the next day. At Chester we did the Cathedral, walked on the walls, discussed Shakespeare and the musical glasses — and made a fresh engagement for the morrow. I do not know, and I am glad to have forgotten, how long these travels were continued. We visited at least, by singular zigzags213, Stratford, Warwick, Coventry, Gloucester, Bristol, Bath, and Wells. At each stage we spoke dutifully of the scene and its associations; I sketched214, the Shyster spouted215 poetry and copied epitaphs. Who could doubt we were the usual Americans, travelling with a design of self-improvement? Who was to guess that one was a blackmailer216, trembling to approach the scene of action — the other a helpless, amateur detective, waiting on events?
It is unnecessary to remark that none occurred, or none the least suitable with my design of protecting Carthew. Two trifles, indeed, completed though they scarcely changed my conception of the Shyster. The first was observed in Gloucester, where we spent Sunday, and I proposed we should hear service in the cathedral. To my surprise, the creature had an ISM of his own, to which he was loyal; and he left me to go alone to the cathedral — or perhaps not to go at all — and stole off down a deserted218 alley107 to some Bethel or Ebenezer of the proper shade. When we met again at lunch, I rallied him, and he grew restive219.
“You need employ no circumlocutions with me, Mr. Dodd,” he said suddenly. “You regard my behaviour from an unfavourable point of view: you regard me, I much fear, as hypocritical.”
I was somewhat confused by the attack. “You know what I think of your trade,” I replied, lamely220 and coarsely.
“Excuse me, if I seem to press the subject,” he continued, “but if you think my life erroneous, would you have me neglect the means of grace? Because you consider me in the wrong on one point, would you have me place myself on the wrong in all? Surely, sir, the church is for the sinner.”
“Did you ask a blessing221 on your present enterprise?” I sneered222.
He had a bad attack of St. Vitus, his face was changed, and his eyes flashed. “I will tell you what I did!” he cried. “I prayed for an unfortunate man and a wretched woman whom he tries to support.”
I cannot pretend that I found any repartee223.
The second incident was at Bristol, where I lost sight of my gentleman some hours. From this eclipse, he returned to me with thick speech, wandering footsteps, and a back all whitened with plaster. I had half expected, yet I could have wept to see it. All disabilities were piled on that weak back — domestic misfortune, nervous disease, a displeasing224 exterior225, empty pockets, and the slavery of vice217.
I will never deny that our prolonged conjunction was the result of double cowardice226. Each was afraid to leave the other, each was afraid to speak, or knew not what to say. Save for my ill- judged allusion227 at Gloucester, the subject uppermost in both our minds was buried. Carthew, Stallbridge-le-Carthew, Stallbridge-Minster — which we had long since (and severally) identified to be the nearest station — even the name of Dorsetshire was studiously avoided. And yet we were making progress all the time, tacking228 across broad England like an unweatherly vessel229 on a wind; approaching our destination, not openly, but by a sort of flying sap. And at length, I can scarce tell how, we were set down by a dilatory230 butt-end of local train on the untenanted platform of Stallbridge-Minster.
The town was ancient and compact: a domino of tiled houses and walled gardens, dwarfed231 by the disproportionate bigness of the church. From the midst of the thoroughfare which divided it in half, fields and trees were visible at either end; and through the sally-port of every street, there flowed in from the country a silent invasion of green grass. Bees and birds appeared to make the majority of the inhabitants; every garden had its row of hives, the eaves of every house were plastered with the nests of swallows, and the pinnacles232 of the church were flickered233 about all day long by a multitude of wings. The town was of Roman foundation; and as I looked out that afternoon from the low windows of the inn, I should scarce have been surprised to see a centurion234 coming up the street with a fatigue235 draft of legionaries. In short, Stallbridge- Minster was one of those towns which appear to be maintained by England for the instruction and delight of the American rambler; to which he seems guided by an instinct not less surprising than the setter’s; and which he visits and quits with equal enthusiasm.
I was not at all in the humour of the tourist. I had wasted weeks of time and accomplished236 nothing; we were on the eve of the engagement, and I had neither plans nor allies. I had thrust myself into the trade of private providence237 and amateur detective; I was spending money and I was reaping disgrace. All the time, I kept telling myself that I must at least speak; that this ignominious silence should have been broken long ago, and must be broken now. I should have broken it when he first proposed to come to Stallbridge-Minster; I should have broken it in the train; I should break it there and then, on the inn doorstep, as the omnibus rolled off. I turned toward him at the thought; he seemed to wince238, the words died on my lips, and I proposed instead that we should visit the Minster.
While we were engaged upon this duty, it came on to rain in a manner worthy239 of the tropics. The vault240 reverberated241; every gargoyle242 instantly poured its full discharge; we waded243 back to the inn, ankle-deep in impromptu244 brooks245; and the rest of the afternoon sat weatherbound, hearkening to the sonorous deluge246. For two hours I talked of indifferent matters, laboriously247 feeding the conversation; for two hours my mind was quite made up to do my duty instantly — and at each particular instant I postponed248 it till the next. To screw up my faltering249 courage, I called at dinner for some sparkling wine. It proved when it came to be detestable; I could not put it to my lips; and Bellairs, who had as much palate as a weevil, was left to finish it himself. Doubtless the wine flushed him; doubtless he may have observed my embarrassment250 of the afternoon; doubtless he was conscious that we were approaching a crisis, and that that evening, if I did not join with him, I must declare myself an open enemy. At least he fled. Dinner was done; this was the time when I had bound myself to break my silence; no more delays were to be allowed, no more excuses received. I went upstairs after some tobacco; which I felt to be a mere251 necessity in the circumstances; and when I returned, the man was gone. The waiter told me he had left the house.
The rain still plumped, like a vast shower-bath, over the deserted town. The night was dark and windless: the street lit glimmeringly252 from end to end, lamps, house windows, and the reflections in the rain-pools all contributing. From a public- house on the other side of the way, I heard a harp159 twang and a doleful voice upraised in the “Larboard Watch,” “The Anchor’s Weighed,” and other naval253 ditties. Where had my Shyster wandered? In all likelihood to that lyrical tavern254; there was no choice of diversion; in comparison with Stallbridge-Minster on a rainy night, a sheepfold would seem gay.
Again I passed in review the points of my interview, on which I was always constantly resolved so long as my adversary255 was absent from the scene: and again they struck me as inadequate256. From this dispiriting exercise I turned to the native amusements of the inn coffee-room, and studied for some time the mezzotints that frowned upon the wall. The railway guide, after showing me how soon I could leave Stallbridge and how quickly I could reach Paris, failed to hold my attention. An illustrated257 advertisement book of hotels brought me very low indeed; and when it came to the local paper, I could have wept. At this point, I found a passing solace258 in a copy of Whittaker’s Almanac, and obtained in fifty minutes more information than I have yet been able to use.
Then a fresh apprehension259 assailed260 me. Suppose Bellairs had given me the slip? suppose he was now rolling on the road to Stallbridge-le-Carthew? or perhaps there already and laying before a very white-faced auditor261 his threats and propositions? A hasty person might have instantly pursued. Whatever I am, I am not hasty, and I was aware of three grave objections. In the first place, I could not be certain that Bellairs was gone. In the second, I had no taste whatever for a long drive at that hour of the night and in so merciless a rain. In the third, I had no idea how I was to get admitted if I went, and no idea what I should say if I got admitted. “In short,” I concluded, “the whole situation is the merest farce262. You have thrust yourself in where you had no business and have no power. You would be quite as useful in San Francisco; far happier in Paris; and being (by the wrath263 of God) at Stallbridge-Minster, the wisest thing is to go quietly to bed.” On the way to my room, I saw (in a flash) that which I ought to have done long ago, and which it was now too late to think of — written to Carthew, I mean, detailing the facts and describing Bellairs, letting him defend himself if he were able, and giving him time to flee if he were not. It was the last blow to my self-respect; and I flung myself into my bed with contumely.
I have no guess what hour it was, when I was wakened by the entrance of Bellairs carrying a candle. He had been drunk, for he was bedaubed with mire30 from head to foot; but he was now sober and under the empire of some violent emotion which he controlled with difficulty. He trembled visibly; and more than once, during the interview which followed, tears suddenly and silently overflowed264 his cheeks.
“I have to ask your pardon, sir, for this untimely visit,” he said. “I make no defence, I have no excuse, I have disgraced myself, I am properly punished; I appear before you to appeal to you in mercy for the most trifling265 aid or, God help me! I fear I may go mad.”
“What on earth is wrong?” I asked.
“I have been robbed,” he said. “I have no defence to offer; it was of my own fault, I am properly punished.”
“But, gracious goodness me!” I cried, “who is there to rob you in a place like this?”
“I can form no opinion,” he replied. “I have no idea. I was lying in a ditch inanimate. This is a degrading confession266, sir; I can only say in self-defence that perhaps (in your good nature) you have made yourself partly responsible for my shame. I am not used to these rich wines.”
“In what form was your money? Perhaps it may be traced,” I suggested.
“It was in English sovereigns. I changed it in New York; I got very good exchange,” he said, and then, with a momentary267 outbreak, “God in heaven, how I toiled for it!” he cried.
“That doesn’t sound encouraging,” said I. “It may be worth while to apply to the police, but it doesn’t sound a hopeful case.”
“And I have no hope in that direction,” said Bellairs. “My hopes, Mr. Dodd, are all fixed268 upon yourself. I could easily convince you that a small, a very small advance, would be in the nature of an excellent investment; but I prefer to rely on your humanity. Our acquaintance began on an unusual footing; but you have now known me for some time, we have been some time — I was going to say we had been almost intimate. Under the impulse of instinctive sympathy, I have bared my heart to you, Mr. Dodd, as I have done to few; and I believe — I trust — I may say that I feel sure — you heard me with a kindly sentiment. This is what brings me to your side at this most inexcusable hour. But put yourself in my place — how could I sleep — how could I dream of sleeping, in this blackness of remorse and despair? There was a friend at hand — so I ventured to think of you; it was instinctive; I fled to your side, as the drowning man clutches at a straw. These expressions are not exaggerated, they scarcely serve to express the agitation of my mind. And think, sir, how easily you can restore me to hope and, I may say, to reason. A small loan, which shall be faithfully repaid. Five hundred dollars would be ample.” He watched me with burning eyes. “Four hundred would do. I believe, Mr. Dodd, that I could manage with economy on two.”
“And then you will repay me out of Carthew’s pocket?” I said. “I am much obliged. But I will tell you what I will do: I will see you on board a steamer, pay your fare through to San Francisco, and place fifty dollars in the purser’s hands, to be given you in New York.”
He drank in my words; his face represented an ecstasy269 of cunning thought. I could read there, plain as print, that he but thought to overreach me.
“And what am I to do in ‘Frisco?” he asked. “I am disbarred, I have no trade, I cannot dig, to beg ——” he paused in the citation167. “And you know that I am not alone,” he added, “others depend upon me.”
“I will write to Pinkerton,” I returned. “I feel sure he can help you to some employment, and in the meantime, and for three months after your arrival, he shall pay to yourself personally, on the first and the fifteenth, twenty-five dollars.”
“Mr. Dodd, I scarce believe you can be serious in this offer,” he replied. “Have you forgotten the circumstances of the case? Do you know these people are the magnates of the section? They were spoken of to-night in the saloon; their wealth must amount to many millions of dollars in real estate alone; their house is one of the sights of the locality, and you offer me a bribe270 of a few hundred!”
“I offer you no bribe, Mr. Bellairs, I give you alms,” I returned. “I will do nothing to forward you in your hateful business; yet I would not willingly have you starve.”
“Give me a hundred dollars then, and be done with it,” he cried.
“I will do what I have said, and neither more nor less,” said I.
“Take care,” he cried. “You are playing a fool’s game; you are making an enemy for nothing; you will gain nothing by this, I warn you of it!” And then with one of his changes, “Seventy dollars — only seventy — in mercy, Mr. Dodd, in common charity. Don’t dash the bowl from my lips! You have a kindly heart. Think of my position, remember my unhappy wife.”
“You should have thought of her before,” said I. “I have made my offer, and I wish to sleep.”
“Is that your last word, sir? Pray consider; pray weigh both sides: my misery271, your own danger. I warn you — I beseech272 you; measure it well before you answer,” so he half pleaded, half threatened me, with clasped hands.
“My first word, and my last,” said I.
The change upon the man was shocking. In the storm of anger that now shook him, the lees of his intoxication273 rose again to the surface; his face was deformed274, his words insane with fury; his pantomime excessive in itself, was distorted by an access of St. Vitus.
“You will perhaps allow me to inform you of my cold opinion,” he began, apparently self-possessed, truly bursting with rage: “when I am a glorified275 saint, I shall see you howling for a drop of water and exult276 to see you. That your last word! Take it in your face, you spy, you false friend, you fat hypocrite! I defy, I defy and despise and spit upon you! I’m on the trail, his trail or yours, I smell blood, I’ll follow it on my hands and knees, I’ll starve to follow it! I’ll hunt you down, hunt you, hunt you down! If I were strong, I’d tear your vitals out, here in this room — tear them out — I’d tear them out! Damn, damn, damn! You think me weak! I can bite, bite to the blood, bite you, hurt you, disgrace you . . . ”
He was thus incoherently raging, when the scene was interrupted by the arrival of the landlord and inn servants in various degrees of deshabille, and to them I gave my temporary lunatic in charge.
“Take him to his room,” I said, “he’s only drunk.”
These were my words; but I knew better. After all my study of Mr. Bellairs, one discovery had been reserved for the last moment: that of his latent and essential madness.
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1
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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inefficiency
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| n.无效率，无能；无效率事例 | |
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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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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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10
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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13
scud
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| n.疾行；v.疾行 | |
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14
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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15
broker
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| n.中间人，经纪人；v.作为中间人来安排 | |
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16
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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17
perspired
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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19
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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20
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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21
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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22
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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23
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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25
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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26
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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27
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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28
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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29
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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30
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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31
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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32
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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33
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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34
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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35
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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36
mimicked
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的过去式和过去分词 )；酷似 | |
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37
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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38
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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39
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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40
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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41
quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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42
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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43
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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44
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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45
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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46
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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47
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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48
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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49
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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50
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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51
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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52
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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53
swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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55
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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56
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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58
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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59
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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60
fishy
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| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
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61
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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62
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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63
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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64
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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65
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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66
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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67
codicil
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| n.遗嘱的附录 | |
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68
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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69
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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70
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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71
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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72
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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73
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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74
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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75
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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76
effulgence
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| n.光辉 | |
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77
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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78
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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79
extradition
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| n.引渡（逃犯） | |
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80
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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81
chili
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| n.辣椒 | |
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82
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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83
flaunted
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| v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的过去式和过去分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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84
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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85
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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86
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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87
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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88
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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89
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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90
squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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91
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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92
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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93
braggadocio
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| n.吹牛大王 | |
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94
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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95
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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96
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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97
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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99
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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101
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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102
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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103
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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104
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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105
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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106
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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107
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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108
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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109
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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110
ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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111
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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112
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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113
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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114
prospectuses
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| n.章程，简章，简介( prospectus的名词复数 ) | |
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115
rekindled
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| v.使再燃( rekindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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117
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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118
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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119
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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120
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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121
dime
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| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
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122
dimes
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| n.（美国、加拿大的）10分铸币( dime的名词复数 ) | |
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123
scuttle
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| v.急赶，疾走，逃避；n.天窗；舷窗 | |
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124
pimples
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| n.丘疹，粉刺，小脓疱( pimple的名词复数 ) | |
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125
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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126
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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127
negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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128
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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129
cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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130
wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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131
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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132
deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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133
encumbrance
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| n.妨碍物，累赘 | |
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134
liquidation
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| n.清算，停止营业 | |
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135
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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136
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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137
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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138
butted
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| 对接的 | |
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139
dastard
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| n.卑怯之人，懦夫；adj.怯懦的，畏缩的 | |
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140
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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141
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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142
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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143
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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144
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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145
invalided
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| 使伤残（invalid的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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146
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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147
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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148
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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149
desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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151
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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152
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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153
scuttling
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| n.船底穿孔，打开通海阀（沉船用）v.使船沉没( scuttle的现在分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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154
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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155
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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156
puma
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| 美洲豹 | |
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157
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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158
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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159
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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160
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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161
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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162
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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163
sonorous
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|
| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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164
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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165
amass
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| vt.积累，积聚 | |
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166
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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167
citation
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| n.引用，引证，引用文；传票 | |
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168
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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169
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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170
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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171
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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172
depiction
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| n.描述 | |
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173
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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174
abominated
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| v.憎恶，厌恶，不喜欢( abominate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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176
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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177
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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178
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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179
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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180
flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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181
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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182
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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183
rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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184
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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185
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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186
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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187
hegira
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| n.逃亡 | |
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188
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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189
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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190
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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191
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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192
sprawling
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|
| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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193
monogram
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| n.字母组合 | |
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194
remittance
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| n.汇款，寄款，汇兑 | |
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195
monograms
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| n.字母组合( monogram的名词复数 ) | |
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196
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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197
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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198
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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199
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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200
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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201
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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202
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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203
fortifying
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| 筑防御工事于( fortify的现在分词 )； 筑堡于； 增强； 强化（食品） | |
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204
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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205
procrastination
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| n.拖延，耽搁 | |
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206
insidiously
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| 潜在地，隐伏地，阴险地 | |
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207
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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208
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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209
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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210
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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211
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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212
covenanted
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| v.立约，立誓( covenant的过去分词 ) | |
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213
zigzags
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| n.锯齿形的线条、小径等( zigzag的名词复数 )v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的第三人称单数 ) | |
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214
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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215
spouted
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| adj.装有嘴的v.（指液体）喷出( spout的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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216
blackmailer
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| 敲诈者，勒索者 | |
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217
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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218
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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219
restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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220
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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221
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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222
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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223
repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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224
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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225
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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226
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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227
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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228
tacking
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| （帆船）抢风行驶，定位焊[铆]紧钉 | |
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229
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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230
dilatory
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| adj.迟缓的，不慌不忙的 | |
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231
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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232
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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233
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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234
centurion
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| n.古罗马的百人队长 | |
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235
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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236
accomplished
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|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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237
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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238
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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239
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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240
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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241
reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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242
gargoyle
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| n.笕嘴 | |
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243
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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244
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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245
brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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246
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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247
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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248
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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249
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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250
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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251
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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252
glimmeringly
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| 微光，隐约的一瞥 | |
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253
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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254
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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255
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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256
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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257
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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258
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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259
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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260
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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261
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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262
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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263
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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264
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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265
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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266
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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267
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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268
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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269
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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270
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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271
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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272
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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273
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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274
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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275
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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276
exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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